


The Hedgehog's Dilemma

by shadukiam



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2018-08-12 18:23:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7944637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadukiam/pseuds/shadukiam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione is Harry's best friend, and Draco is Harry's long-term boyfriend. The problem, of course, is that he's sort of in love with both of them. The Age of Aquarius has finally met its match. Draco/Harry/Hermione triad fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Girl & A Muddy Road

**The Hedgehog's Dilemma**

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" _We are our own dragons and our own heroes. We must rescue ourselves from ourselves._ "  
― **Peter S. Beagle**

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**Chapter One: The Girl & The Muddy Road**

Ginny put her hands on her hips, then spread them, doing a quick turn on her toes. "What do you think?" she asked. She was wearing what looked like a collection of blue foam triangles.

Sucking on a mint, Hermione surveyed her doubtfully. "I think you becoming friends with Parkinson has completely warped your brain," she finally said, shaking her head a bit. And honestly, the thought of the wizarding world's Gossip Girl being best friends with _Sarcasma, Queen of Snark_ was terrifying, but Hermione supposed that if the worst that came out of it was some questionable fashion choices, she had no real complaints. "Is that one of hers?"

"Yes. And it's brilliant," Ginny huffed. "I'm not even really asking _you_. All you wear are cardigans. Draco?" She twisted to look at him hopefully where he was busying himself at the counter.

He didn't even turn around. "No," he intoned, flatly. "Tea?"

Sighing, Ginny dropped her head back in defeat for a moment. "Really? Marco _loved_ it. He wants it for the runway at his expo in _Milan_. I thought you gay blokes really went for this stuff." She wrinkled her nose a bit. "You know what? I think dating Harry, who wears the same jumper _every day_ , has warped _your_ brain." Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she swept out of the kitchen.

Hermione turned her attention back to her book as the Floo roared to life in the living room.

Draco set a mug at her side. She could smell the faint tang of lemon, and marvelled at the fact that he knew how she took her tea. Two years ago, when Harry and Draco had started dating, he would have sooner thrown the kettle on the _floor_ than offer anyone a drink. Now, she couldn't so much as _glance at_ Grimmauld Place without being given something to sip.

"Thank you," she murmured, crushing the mint between her teeth quickly so the flavour would be gone by the time the tea had cooled.

She was buried in her book when he sat down next to her. For a moment, he just sat there, and she could feel his eyes on her. Knowing, at this point, how much he enjoyed making people uncomfortable, she ignored him and focused on dissolving her mint.

As she curled her fingers around the handle of the mug, he spoke. "I'm not, you know."

"Not what?" she asked, absently.

"Gay."

Sipping delicately at the tea, she winced. The leftover sweetness of the mint lingered on her tongue, and the drink tasted entirely too bitter in comparison. "I know," she said, dismissively. "You're bisexual. You told me that last week. And the week before."

Draco nodded, and she saw his fingers tapping on the mug out of the corner of her eye. "Neither's Potter."

Slowly, Hermione raised her eyes from the book to stare at him, squinting a bit. "I know." She knew she sounded short, but why did he have to start talking about this inane nonsense when she was right in the middle of reading a sentence? "I think I know how my best friend identifies. But thank you, for reminding me. _Again_."

A look of frustration passed over his face, and he chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment in wordless agitation before he took a gulp of his tea. She stared at him for a second longer, waiting for him to say something (maybe _repeat it, again_ , or something, since he seemed so fond of it). When he just sat there in mute irritation, she turned back to her book, finishing the chapter and her tea.

"I should get going, Harry's taking forever," she sighed. "Tell him I'll get the book from him at work, or something, okay? Thanks for the tea, Draco."

"Of course, Granger," he muttered. Despite becoming friendly with everyone, he hadn't been able to break out of his habit of surnames, and they'd long since stopped correcting him on it. She deposited the mug in the sink on her way out.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

She left early for work the next day, stopping into Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes with a brown paper bag. The shop was empty at this time of day, and the clerk's counter was similarly so. "Ron!" she yelled, glancing at her watch. She wasn't going to be late for his sake.

He popped out of the back, a broad grin on his face that widened _impossibly_ further when he saw the bag in her hands. "Yes!" he cheered, trotting eagerly behind the cash register to grab it from her. "What is it, today? Is it that Asian chicken salad? That was _amazing_. No, wait. Is it that seared tuna?" He reached in and tried to wrestle the container out. "Salmon? _Salmon_!"

Eyes widening a bit, Hermione ordered, "Calm down. Honestly."

Inhaling sharply, he closed his eyes, his face contorting a bit as though he were about to burst into sobs. "Oh, great Muggle God, who rules from the heavens and has a flowing Dumblebeard, I thank you for this bounty—"

"Oh, my God." She turned to go.

"Oi!" She glanced over her shoulder at the second level, where George was leaning over the railing. "You're not even dating him, anymore, and you still bring him lunch? Where's _mine_? If this keeps up, I'm going to think you're not even in love with me, anymore."

"That's a good thing. It means the delusion is passing," she drawled.

Ron put the container back in the bag, smug. "Hey, maybe if you manage to make her into _your_ ex-girlfriend, she'll start bringing you her leftovers, too. I put _five whole years_ of my life into these leftovers. Five years that I'll never get back." He caught Hermione's narrowed eyes and swallowed. "And the five happiest years of my life. Obviously."

"Keep it up, Weasley. It's just as easy for me to write _George_ on that bag as it is to write _Ron_."

He clutched the bag to his chest. "If you bring him lunch, I will set it _and_ this shop on fire, and then we'll all die penniless and destitute because of your turncoat ways, Hermione. Is _that_ what you want? Also, I'll have wasted the food. Unless you count turning it into charcoal as simply repurposing it," he murmured, thoughtfully.

She waved, smiling humourlessly. "I'm going to go ahead and leave while that train of thought misses the station. _Bye_."

"Thanks, luv!" he called after her, as she shouldered the door open and stepped back out into the bitter autumn air. Maybe she _should_ stop bringing him lunch. But cooking for one was impossible, and bringing Ron leftovers both delighted him and kept him from eating greasy fish and chips on a daily basis.

Sighing, Hermione trudged down the sidewalk. At least she had work to look forward to.

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She was purely and utterly focused when hands slammed down on either side of her, hitting the desk like a thunderclap. She swallowed a scream, jumping and clasping her hand to her throat.

Harry chuckled. "Hey."

"Oh, my _God_ ," Hermione hissed, turning a bit to dig her elbow into his side. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

He was still laughing as he shied away from her elbow. She had to admit, as much as his attraction to Draco Malfoy _confused_ her, it had at least brought a smile back to his face after the war. After several years of watching him flit in and out of depression (something Ginny had not even felt up to the task of dealing with, after a while), seeing him so _happy_ was more than enough reason to not question his relationship with the tetchy blond.

Besides, she supposed she saw the appeal. Draco was a handsome man, and Hermione _supposed_ she could see how his petulant brattiness might be endearing. If she squinted, that is.

"I couldn't resist," Harry admitted, completely unrepentant.

She rolled her eyes, shooting him a mild glare as she turned back to her work. She sighed heavily when he leant on her desk, scooting between it and her. When she scowled up at him, he offered her a grin. "You skipped lunch, didn't you?"

"No," she muttered, taking care to hold his gaze so he wouldn't sense the lie.

His eyes narrowed a smidgen as he stared into hers. "Liar," he accused. Groaning, she slumped back into her chair. "What did I say was going to happen if you skipped lunch, again, Hermione?"

"You were going to stop _crumpling my papers_ with your _bum_?" Straightening, she shoved at his hips, and he allowed himself to be pushed off of her parchments so that she could tidy them up and put them at the far corner of the desk, out of harm's way. He crossed his arms, ever-patient, and she wrinkled her nose when she realised he wasn't going away. "Do we have to?"

"If I don't punish you, how will you _learn_?"

She hesitated. "I'll eat double lunch tomorrow."

"That's _not_ how nutrition works," he scoffed. "Up. _Up_ , up." She sagged as he grasped her arms, trying to become dead weight as he yanked her up. It didn't work, and he dragged her out of her seat with ease. Pulling her out of her cubicle and steering her down the corridor, he leaned into her boss' office to announce, "I'm stealing Miss Granger for her lunch hour!"

"Good," Halfweather shot back.

Harry beamed, curling his arm around her shoulders and exuding an obnoxious amount of cheer as he led her towards the lifts. "What did we learn today?"

"That your boyfriend has turned you into a prat."

"We _learned_ that when you skip your lunch, I make you take your full hour and waste even more of your time," he corrected, patiently. "I don't understand why you don't just take the lunch you make Ron and eat it at your desk if you're so obsessed. _I'll get food on my papers_ ," he said, in a falsetto, perfectly in time with her. He herded her into a lift and hit the button for the ground floor. "Yeah, yeah, let's go."

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They ended up in line at a sandwich shop. It hadn't taken long for Hermione to get over her snit and start talking about how she was pushing for house-elves to make a living wage. He listened with half an ear, having heard it all before, his eyes on the sandwich sign as he tried to figure out what he wanted.

"And then who comes in? _Malfoy_. The older, _ruder_ version; not yours," she huffed, her face pinching with instant dislike. "And, surprise surprise, he does _not agree_ with my initiative."

"Well, you probably should have seen that coming."

She threw her hands up. "What does he even care? He can't _afford_ to pay his elves? He has money coming out of his pores! Turkey and swiss!" she barked at the poor sandwich-maker, who jumped a bit. Hermione winced. "Sorry, sorry, I'm— it's— not you, I'm just— in general..." Fading off and realising that the poor girl was just staring at her, wide-eyed, Hermione gave up.

Pressing his lips together to keep the smile down, Harry murmured, "Roast beef. Cheddar. Thank you. It's the principle of the thing, Hermione. He just doesn't _believe_ that elves should earn wages. It has nothing to do with his ability to afford it."

"That's insane," she enunciated, her hands forming frustrated claws in front of her as she struggled to remain calm. "He is so infuriating. I've never met a man whom I so dearly wanted to shove into a waste compactor."

Harry blinked. "Star Wars?"

"Yes," she admitted. She'd watched it the night before.

"You need new DVDs."

"My DVDs are fine. Will you focus? Lettuce, tomato, and mustard," she told the sandwich girl, tiredly. "I need someone on my side who can counter Malfoy's rich-boy clout."

"Lettuce, mayonnaise... Onions? Onions," Harry decided. "And what, someone who _can't_ be bought off by Malfoy's pile of riches? Do you want me to help you find a unicorn, while we're at it? Perhaps a phoenix, or two? Jesus, himself?"

"Well, at least I have your oh-so-helpful sarcasm to see me through," she said, tersely, grabbing a bag of crisps and fishing for her purse.

"I've got it," Harry said, and Hermione let her purse drop back to her side as he paid, grabbing some bottled waters out of the fridge before heading to the table. He followed her with the tray, squinting at her jalapeno crisps with distaste. "I don't know how you can stomach those."

"I don't know how you can stomach Draco, but _I_ am polite and kept my incredulity to myself," she sniffed.

His grin was immediate. "Really? You have _no idea_ how I can stomach him, huh? What was that thing you said last New Year's, while you were pissed out of your mind, about his arse—?"

"That was a joke," she interrupted, feeling her cheeks heat. "Also, I was drunk and being stupid."

"Oh, right, of course. So when you said that thing about it looking like it was chiseled by Michelangelo—"

"Harry—"

"—and then being discarded for being _too_ perfect, that was just you joking," he finished, in a perfectly innocent tone. "I suppose you grabbing it was just you joking, too, huh?"

She scrubbed her hand over her face, mortified. "Al _right_. So he's fit. That doesn't mean he's not obnoxious."

He held up his hands. "No argument, here. I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page about your jokes, is all. I'd hate for us to have a miscommunication."

She unwrapped her sandwich with a scowl. "You know, I really hate you."

"Oh, you really don't," he returned, confidently, his grin returning so widely that it put dimples in his cheeks. When her scowl intensified, he leant forward and booped her on the nose, yanking his hand back before she could slap it out of her face.

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When her mobile rang, she jogged for it and then crammed herself into the corner of her bedroom — the only place in her flat where she got reception. The magic made things go a little crazy in the building. "Hi, Dad."

"Hello, Lambchop. Are you still popping by on Sunday for your mum's birthday?"

"Yep." The call began to get choppy, and she shoved herself harder into the corner of the room until it evened out. "What'd you get her?"

"Bracelet."

She snorted. "Creative, as usual," she said, biting back a faint smile. When Rose Granger failed to hint at things she wanted with an appropriate lack of subtlety, she received jewellery. After over thirty years of marriage, she'd learned her lesson and now just stuck a picture of what she wanted on the fridge with a magnet. She must not have specified this year.

"You're one to talk," David retorted. "Let me guess: A gift certificate to a restaurant."

The pause was as guilty as it was indignant. "No," she managed, after a moment of spluttering. "I got her something much better than that. Thank _you_ very much."

"Oh really? What is it? I can't wait to hear."

Another pause. "You're cutting out," she said, primly, although the connection had never been more crystal clear than in that moment. "Better hang up. Bye, Dad!" He was laughing when she hung up, her nose wrinkled. She had four days to come up with a different birthday present, and now she was also saddled with a gift certificate to a restaurant she didn't really want.

The next birthday she even _knew_ about was Ron's, and it was all the way in March. The gift certificate expired on December 3rd. "Damn it," she grumbled, setting her mobile down and stalking back into the kitchen.

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Harry leant back in his chair, peering at her over his steepled fingers. "How much is it for?"

"Two hundred and fifty. Pounds," Hermione added.

His eyebrows shot up. "Wow, you are a _good_ daughter."

" _Thank_ you. It's nice to finally be appreciated. So..." She shot him a winning smile. "Care to buy it off me? I think Draco would even like this place; it's pretty posh. The kind of place where you bring in a gift certificate for two-fifty and you still end up fishing out your wallet. He'd have to wear something Muggle, of course."

"Hmm. I don't know. _Full asking price_ for a gift certificate you can't use?" he asked, sceptically.

She slumped against his desk, groaning. "I swear, you have become so insufferable since that blond idiot sunk his claws into you," she complained. "What do you _want_?"

"Come with us."

Shaking her head emphatically, she said, "Nope," complete with a popped 'p.' "Absolutely not. I'm not going to sit around while you two have a _date_ around me. I'll be trapped there by societal conventions, unable to escape while you two make doe-eyes at each other. I'll be utterly miserable."

"It won't be a date," he promised. "And you won't be the third wheel. He's always complaining about how my friends are riff-raff and we don't do anything nice as a group. This way, I can shut him up."

"How can you sit there and say with a _straight face_ that I won't be a third wheel?"

"I promise."

Her nose wrinkled. "Can we bring Ginny?"

"I am not stepping a single foot outside with her in public until she purges Pansy from her closet," Harry said, grimly. "Besides, I want to go this Saturday, and she'll be at her fashion expo, wearing something completely ridiculous."

"Ron?"

"Is closing on Saturday and chews with his mouth open."

Hermione made an exasperated noise. " _Some_ fourth person, then. If I have to sit across from you while you two play footsie under the table, I _will_ go home and shut my head in the oven," she swore. "I haven't dated anyone since Ron, and I don't need you two flaunting your happy relationship at me in close quarters."

"You have become so bitter," he said, wonderingly. "You haven't even been single two years yet, and you are just a pile of bitterness wrapped around a burgeoning cat lady."

She straightened from his desk with a huff. "Forget it."

Harry laughed as he grabbed her wrist, keeping her from stomping out entirely. "Listen. I'll buy it off you. I'll treat you to dinner at some posh restaurant. And we will sit there and talk about house-elf rights right in front of him. You can't tell me you don't find the thought of that _a little_ appealing."

Hermione tilted her head a bit, considering it. Watching Draco get all tetchy _might_ be kind of fun. "No snogging in front of me," she ordered.

"I will not snog Draco in front of you," he promised, gravely. He waited, eyebrows raised.

She inhaled deeply, pursing her lips in thought. She supposed there were worse ways to spend a Saturday night. And honestly, as much fun as it was to complain about him, she really _did_ like Draco; he was actually rather funny and charming when he hadn't worked himself up into a snit. "Alright," she agreed.

Harry smiled, excitement flashing over his expression. "Wear something nice. Something he won't make fun of."

"That's impossible," she informed him, crisply. She could storm into that restaurant in something straight out of a magazine, and Draco would still find something rude to say about it. "That man could find fault in the _Mona Lisa_."

He started chuckling, not having much in the way of a rebuttal, and she patted him on the shoulder and headed back towards her own department. At least she got the gift certificate taken care of. Now she just had to figure out what to buy her mum, instead. Something to do with gardening, she supposed.

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"What about these ones?" Ron picked up a packet, hopeful as ever.

Hermione glanced at them. Carrots. "She has those," she said, as she'd said about the last _six_ seed packets Ron had tried to get her to buy. He put them back with a sigh and reached for strawberries. "Too high maintenance."

He stopped reaching, throwing his hand up in wordless frustration. "I give up. Since the woman has the world, apparently, just get her a card."

"I am _not_ getting my mum a _card_ for her birthday."

"Hermione, I'm no good at present-picking," he began, and she turned to glare at him, her lips thinning. Increasingly desperate, he pointed out: "Remember your birthday three years ago? Remember when I got you that headband with the cat on it?"

"You are _earning your lunches_. Help me find something, or go back to eating a family-sized bag of crisps every day at noon," she grit out.

Sighing, he turned back to the seed wall. He pointed. "Those."

"Has them."

"Oh, Merlin, someone kill me," he whispered.

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She _did_ end up getting the strawberries, if only because she was pretty sure her dad would disown her if she brought any more vegetables into his house. Besides, as high maintenance as strawberries were, she thought her mum might enjoy the challenge. Then, worried the strawberries weren't enough, she also got a pot for them, and some soil.

After assembling it on her kitchen table, Hermione looked at the dirt-smudged pot doubtfully. She was glad she'd had the foresight to put some newspaper down, because it was messier work than it really looked like it would be.

She wrapped it carefully in tissue paper, and murmured, "Good luck in there."

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Saturday night found Hermione squeezing into one of the few dresses she actually owned. It was black, and plain, and one with several practical uses. It was also a little tight, and she grimaced a bit as she struggled with the zipper. Finally, she sucked in a breath and grabbed her wand, forcing it the last inch or so by magic until it locked.

Her face scrunched a bit as she twisted around in front of her mirror. She hadn't noticed herself gaining any weight, but then again, her work clothes were generally shapeless and (as she'd just discovered) fairly forgiving.

Maybe this was just a hallmark of turning twenty-five. It was all downhill from here.

"God, I _am_ becoming a cat lady," she whispered to her reflection, horrified. She was going to have to start going on walks, or something. Or maybe she'd learn how to run. Properly, that is, not the terrified sprinting and screaming she'd done throughout the war.

She tried to imagine herself in those tight running shorts and made a face at the mental image.

Twisting her hair up into a bun — she knew it was only a matter of time before her hair came bursting right back out of it, but she could usually get it to behave for a couple of hours, at least — she surveyed herself one last time in the mirror and regretted not trying on the dress earlier in the week. Draco was sure to notice the extra stone and would most certainly have a blast needling her about it. Well, it was too late to try and get anything else, now, so she just shrugged helplessly at herself and headed for the Floo.

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"I'm here!" Hermione yelled, stepping into the living room and dusting the ashes from her hips. Harry appeared at the top of the stairs and held up a finger to indicate he needed a minute, and she waved him away as she headed for the kitchen, thirsty.

Draco was already there, at the table. He did a double-take when she entered, a sneer already etching itself onto his handsome face. "Merlin, Granger, do I need to take you shopping?"

Plastering a plastic smile on her face, she yanked the fridge open. "And it is just a _delight_ to see you, as well, Draco. I'm _great_ , thanks ever so for asking." She leaned down a bit to survey the selections and plucked the container of apple juice out.

"You've gained weight."

Hermione slammed the fridge closed, turning to narrow her eyes at him. "I wish I could say you've gained any manners," she grumbled. "Hasn't anyone ever told you not to comment on a woman's weight?"

He watched her fish for a glass and fill it up, a scowl seared into her expression. "Touchy, today."

"You are so annoying. Harry should be inducted into a _sainthood_ for putting up with you," she growled. "And yes, I _know_. Alright? I am _well aware_ that I'm getting all fat and shapeless and horrifying. Please feel free to _never bring it up again_."

Draco stood, his eyes climbing up her body as he took a few steps towards her. "It's not that bad," he assured her, lazily. "Made your breasts bigger."

She'd been about to take a sip, but paused, lowering the glass to say, "You're an absolute animal."

He plucked the glass out of her hand, smirking when she squawked indignantly and holding it out of her reach when she made a wild grab for it. "I mean, it would be better if you didn't try and stuff them into that off-the-rack monstrosity and into something with a hint of class, but overall, I've no complaints." He took a leisurely sip of the juice.

Leaning against the counter, she offered him a tight smile. "Please. If I were wearing anything that earned more than a passing glance, your ego wouldn't be able to handle the lapse in attention. You'd expire on the spot."

"You vastly underestimate me."

" _Give_ me that," she snapped, snatching her juice back. It was half-gone, but she drained the rest of it anyway in one quick swallow so that he wouldn't have the chance to take it again. He watched her, his eyebrows rising just a smidgen as she finished her gulp and headed for the sink. "Do you have to take some sort of class to be quantified as this obnoxious? Is there a certificate?"

"You drank after me," Draco murmured, still standing where she'd left him.

"What?"

He pivoted towards her a bit, his head cocked. "You drank after I did. You've never done that," he pointed out. "Something about gems—"

"Germs," she corrected, squinting at him. "And I don't worry about that sort of stuff with friends, just strangers." In fact, she was trying to recall whether or not she'd ever before shared a glass with him. She couldn't remember, but then again, it wasn't as though she'd been keeping track as closely as he _clearly_ had been.

He ran his tongue over his lips. "I see."

Hermione squinted harder. Just as she was opening her mouth to ask him what on Earth he was gassing on about, Harry entered, looking excited and quite dashing in his suit. "Ready?" he asked, sounding a little breathless. He must have run down the stairs. "You look nice, Hermione."

"Oh, please," Draco muttered. He didn't do anything to try and shy away from the slap Harry landed on his arm, his green eyes narrowing in brief warning.

When Harry turned his gaze back to Hermione, the smile returned. "Let's go."


	2. What Do You Call The World?

**The Hedgehog's Dilemma**

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**Chapter Two: What Do You Call The World?**

She was actually surprised to admit it, but… dinner was going well.

They'd sat opposite from each other instead of next to each other, and true to his word, Harry had struck up an immediate conversation about her bill for house-elf rights. It didn't take long for Draco to start making exasperated noises, and he butted in within three minutes to defend his father. "They're _elves_ , Granger, this is their whole life's purpose. You take that away from them, and you take away what they _are_."

"Do you even hear yourself?" Hermione demanded. "How would you even know that? Have a lot of heart-to-hearts with your elves, do you? Delved into their hopes and dreams a bit?"

He waved a hand, dismissive. "It's _common knowledge_. If they were that unhappy, they'd find a way to leave."

She squinted at him. "So. The word 'slavery.' That's just a brand new concept for you. Never heard of it before. Don't understand how it works. Am I reading this, correctly?" Draco rolled his eyes, and she persisted, "No, seriously. I mean, you _do_ understand that _slaves_ can't just wander off whenever they feel like it, right? They can't just be like, _screw that job_ , throw their apron down, and waltz off manor grounds?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Draco shook his head. "They're not _slaves_ ; they're servants."

"Servants. Get. Paid. Money," she said, slowly.

Dropping his hand from his face, he leant towards her, his eyes narrowing a smidgen. "Don't talk to me like I'm an imbecile."

"Don't look so deserving of—hey!" She wasn't quick enough to grab her wine glass before he snatched it up, maintaining eye contact as he drained it. Hermione ran her tongue over her teeth, trying to look calm as she watched him. When he set it back down, looking smug, she grabbed the bottle and poured herself some more. "You are so immature."

"Oh, thank you," Harry said, as soon as she'd righted the bottle. He took her glass and brought it up to his lips.

She stared at him. "That is not a _communal glass_."

"Well, mine was empty."

"Oh, for the love of—" She grabbed his glass and held it while she poured some wine into it. "No, we're trading. This is mine, now," she said when he reached for it. "Honestly, and you said he wanted a nice night out without the riff-raff." She scoffed as they shared a quick glance, Draco a bit bemused and Harry offering the tiniest shrug he could in response. "You're both toddlers."

"I think it's lovely to foster a sense of community and sharing," Harry said, evenly, picking up his fork and eying her plate. He reached for it and she pushed her fork against his with a metallic _clink_.

Holding his fork at bay with hers, she leant towards him and said, somberly, "I will stab you in the leg."

"I'll give you some of mine!"

"If I wanted _yours_ , that's what I would have ordered," she returned, primly. Despite her words, though, she quickly cut a section out of her pork loin and deposited it on his plate. She decided to ignore his smug smile as he tried it, turning back towards Draco. "What I don't understand is what your father thinks he has to lose by paying his elves a wage."

His eyebrows lifted as he sighed. "Every single aspect of his understanding of the world, mostly. It's not about the wages, Granger. It's what they represent. It's wages, today, but tomorrow it might be complete emancipation."

She gasped. "So you agree they're in need of emancipation," she accused, pointing at him.

Draco shook his head. "No, I do not. They're all perfectly happy. The only person who has a problem with it is you and the motley crew of Muggle-borns you've formed into a picket. That's not the point," he added, when she opened her mouth to argue. "The point is, as long as you represent a complete reformation of the life he's lived and still loves, he's going to fight you, whether it's on elf wages or serving beets in the cafeteria. It's not the elves, Granger. It's you."

Falling silent, Hermione just stared at him, sobering up almost immediately. So Lucius Malfoy was simply dedicated to standing in her way, no matter what.

The future suddenly looked so exhausting.

"So, he hates me and wants to ruin everything I'm trying to do," she muttered, flatly. "Well, that's just great. Especially since all he needs to do to shut me up is toss a few knuts at the right people."

Harry had grown more sober, too, issuing a nasal sigh as he took in her downtrodden expression. "Well, there's always Draco," he said, suddenly.

"What?"

"I beg your pardon?" Draco agreed, his eyes narrowing into slits.

"Well, it's an inside track, isn't it?" Harry pointed out, reasonably. Draco's lips thinned and he gave a minute shake of his head that Harry dutifully ignored. "Nobody knows Lucius Malfoy better than his own son. He can probably give you some pointers on dealing with him. Or getting around him."

"Potter," Draco muttered, through his teeth, looking wary when Hermione turned to him.

"Do you think you could?" she asked, her eyes so wide and hopeful, like a damn _puppy_. Draco's expression was stiff as he regarded her, and he didn't say anything. She scooted towards him. "I mean, you don't have to come right out and announce yourself as my partner-in-crime, or anything; you could just give me some advice. Things I could use to deflect him a little bit. Or distract him. _Some_ thing."

His eyes flicked towards Harry, damning and furious, and Harry just raised his eyebrows, silently urging him along.

"Please, Draco?" Hermione asked, softly.

Drawing in a deep breath, he let his eyes flit between the two of them. The silence lasted for a full, tense minute. Then he exhaled, his jaw clenching a bit. "You will _not_ tell my father I'm helping you," he ordered, looking even more openly irritated when a grin blossomed across her face. "And I'm not getting overtly involved. I'm just going to talk to you _in private_ about what I think might be a good move. And I _guarantee nothing_ in terms of results, Granger. Nothing. He's far better at this than I am, and he'll probably adapt fairly easily to your change in strategy."

"I'll take any leg up I can get," she promised, her smile widening impossibly further. "Thank you, so much. And of course it'll be a secret. We can do it in Grimmauld Place, even. You won't even have to meet me anywhere."

He exhaled through his nose, rough and annoyed, and jerked a nod.

"Thank you," she repeated.

"Stop grovelling," he muttered, picking up his silverware again.

He was too annoyed to talk to, after that, so she ended up chatting with Harry about some work gossip until dessert arrived.

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"I'm stuffed." She was clutching her middle, slumped back in her chair.

Draco kicked her ankle. "Sit up straight," he commanded, narrowing his eyes at her when she groaned and begrudgingly complied. "You're in a nice restaurant. Act like it. And no one told you to eat all of the pecan tart."

Her face scrunched. "It was just so good," she whined, snickering at his irate expression. Harry chuckled, himself, finishing off his wine.

As he paid, she meandered towards the hostess stand with Draco, letting him help her get her coat on. "You're awfully grouchy for having just had a splendid meal at one of the nicest restaurants in London," she observed, wryly. "Are you really that angry about the prospect of helping me?"

He hesitated. "My father is a highly intelligent man. He will almost certainly figure it out, and then that'll be something that _I'll_ have to deal with. I'm not _particularly_ excited for it."

"I'll be discreet," she promised.

"You couldn't be _discreet_ in a coffin, six feet under," he huffed, openly incredulous. Harry joined them, and he herded her out the door.

She was gathering up her coat to button it against the crisp fall air when Harry said, "Your hair's coming out."

"Bugger," she muttered. "Well, it was only a matter of time."

"Here," he offered, taking the clips out to begin gathering her messy curls again. She focused on getting her coat buttons done up, hardly paying attention as his fingers carefully combed through her hair. When she'd finished getting her coat done up to her chin and was untangling her scarf from itself, she slowly realised that Harry had been playing with her hair for nearly a minute.

Which she wasn't _against_ , in principle. It was just that it was odd. He'd helped her with her hair before, and usually it took him all of two seconds to slap together the messiest bun possible.

Frowning, she glanced up at Draco and was frozen for a moment by the sheer intensity of his stare as he watched them. Sensing her scrutiny, he blinked, his eyes lifting from Harry's hands and meeting hers. He quickly affected a nonchalant air and glanced around the street.

"Harry?" she murmured, her confusion apparent.

The clips snapped into place. "Sorry," he said, chuckling. "I kept losing the strands. I need to make a mental note not to help you with this thing while it's so windy out."

"Oh." She laughed, feeling stupid for her brief moment of bewilderment. "It's okay. Thank you."

She was feeling the bun with her hand—he'd done a surprisingly nice job—when he suggested, "Let's take a walk somewhere or something. Walk off the feeling of nearly bursting, hey?" Draco grunted, and Hermione shot him a smile, which Harry took as unanimous agreement. Stuffing his hands into his pocket, he started down the street. "You know, there's a playground around here, somewhere."

"For children?" she asked, perking a bit. He hummed an affirmative. "With—"

"Swings. Yes," he answered. "You know, it's amazing. Get on a broom and levitate half an inch, and you'll have a panic attack. Swing _ten feet_ into the air? Just fine."

She _tsk_ ed. "Swings are different," she defended, following him eagerly. "First of all, you're grounded and practically attached to the apparatus by centrifugal force. It's hard to fall off a swing. Any lackwit can tumble off a floating broom."

"Are you calling yourself a lackwit?" He raised his shoulder to catch her slap, laughing. "I'm just checking!"

"Don't be a prat," she ordered, but she was grinning. She pushed him, and he quickly pulled his hands out of his pockets and grabbed her, holding her against his side. After putting up a token struggle, she settled there, still chortling. His hand rested easily around her waist, and she put her arm around him, leaning against his shoulder as they walked.

Draco walked ahead of them, his hands in his trouser pockets.

Trusting Harry to keep her from walking into a bench or a bin or something, she tilted her head back to look up at the stars. They looked strangely clear, given that they were still in the city. "Look. Orion," she murmured, and Draco glanced up. They spent the rest of the walk pointing out all the constellations and stars they could find, trying to outdo each other as Harry shook his head in silent amusement.

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"There's only two," Draco noted, lifting his chin to indicate the swings. He was shoved wildly back and forth as they burst past him on either side, running to claim them. Straightening his coat with a scowl, he followed them. Two _children_ , is what they were.

Harry beat Hermione there by several feet, not being encumbered by heels, and took the one that was lower to the ground. This was, apparently, the more desirable swing, because Hermione slowed to a jog, whinging.

Merlin. Draco would never understand Muggles.

As soon as she sat, they began to swing, Hermione having some trouble kicking off with her heels. But once she got going, she showed no apprehension about swinging higher than she'd _ever_ consent to going on a broom. Draco circled around them, vaguely recalling a film Harry had watched with him in which a mother had pushed her son on a swing.

She squeaked in surprise when she felt hands on her, pushing her forward, but soon her laughter returned. "Not too high," she pleaded, and was rewarded with a particularly hard shove that sent her flying up with a shriek. " _Draco_!"

Harry barked a laugh as she kicked her feet.

On the swing back towards Draco, she felt his arms close around her middle — chains, and all. She didn't have enough time to tense before he'd pulled her to a sudden halt, forcing all the air out of her lungs.

" _Hurk_ ," she wheezed, pained. She coughed as she struggled to inhale. "You _arse_."

"Sorry, I thought I heard you call my name," he said, innocently. "I wanted to see what you wanted."

She tried to swing her feet back enough to kick him, but couldn't connect. Meanwhile, Harry slowed on his swing, coming to an eventual stop as he watched them. "I'm going to kick your face right off of your face," she threatened, as soon as she got enough air back in her lungs to speak. "As soon as you let me down—"

"It sounds like I don't have a lot of good reasons to let you down, then."

"Draco, you _prat_ —!"

Harry stood as she flailed her legs uselessly, stepping in front of her swing. "Are you alright?" he asked, but she could see how hard he was struggling not to burst out laughing.

"No! Your arsehole boyfriend got me right in the solar plexus," she snapped. She stopped kicking, if only because she didn't want to catch Harry in the gut or something. She let go of the chain to reach down and pinch Draco's hand, feeling his grip tighten on her. "I couldn't breathe for almost a full minute. I could've gotten _brain damage_."

"You're breathing alright now, though?" Harry murmured, and he closed the gap between them, his palm coming to rest on her side. It stayed there, warm, his thumb smoothing over her ribs.

Hermione blinked, her struggles to free herself coming to a complete stop as she looked her best friend in the face. The smile still lingered at the corners of his lips, but his green eyes looked serious—and fond. The feeling of just playing around suddenly bled out of the air between them, leaving it crackling with some energy she couldn't readily identify. As she tried to will her brain to leave the dull wine-haze she'd clouded it up with at dinner, she muttered, "What—?"

His eyes dropped to her lips, and her heart dropped to her _shoes_ as he tilted her chin up, pressing his lips to hers. She knew she went stiff, and felt Draco's grip tighten a bit, holding her more securely against him.

This had to be the new number-one spot on her list of strange feelings: getting kissed by her best friend while his boyfriend's arms were wrapped around her.

Draco hooked his chin over her shoulder, exhaling on her ear, and she jerked in surprise, sucking in a ragged breath. Harry chased her as she straightened, his hands folding around her knees as he deepened the kiss, his eyes closing. He sighed against her lips in what sounded like _relief_ , and the sound made her insides turn to jelly. She felt Draco's lips tracing up the side of her neck and _that_ finally broke her brain.

She jerked back, flailing wildly. "What are y—what is— _what_?" she screeched, kicking out in a fit of a panic. Harry quickly stepped out of range, and Draco released her.

Her coat got stuck on the swing as she tried to disembark, and she twisted around and yanked on it, stumbling back a few more feet as she stared at them, her face bloodless and pale. Gingerly, she reached up, and her fingers skimmed over her lips—still moist. "What are you _doing_?" she demanded, shrilly.

Harry and Draco shared a look, and it was her best friend that finally nodded slightly and stepped towards her. "Hermione, we—Uh, wow. This is weird," he murmured, wincing.

"You're telling _me_?"

"No, I mean, talking about it," he corrected, quickly. "I'm just now realising how odd it must sound, that's all, um. Listen. Hermione. We've been talking about this, and… well, if you were open to the idea, that is, um—God. If you were _up_ for it, we were thinking maybe you could… _we_ could—"

"Shag," Draco supplied.

" _No_ ," Harry snapped, scowling at his boyfriend. "Oh, dear God, _stop_ helping. Please. Thank you. Jesus."

"You were dancing around it."

Harry, who'd lifted his hands to try and keep Hermione from bolting right then and there, dropped his hands and pivoted on his heel to glare at his boyfriend. "Really? _I_ was dancing around it? Says the man who thought reminding her on a weekly basis that we swung both ways was a perfectly adequate method of letting her know our intentions. At least _I_ actually got her on a date."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Because she _happened to have a gift certificate_ to a _restaurant_. Don't act like it was some grand plan of yours, Potter—"

" _What_. Is going. _On_?" Her voice had reached a pitch so shrill that she was honestly a little surprised a bunch of dogs hadn't set off barking throughout the neighbourhood. She was breathing hard and fast, growing rapidly dizzy; she could only pray that she wouldn't pass out without getting an explanation for this nonsense.

They shared another look, and she fought down a frustrated scream.

"Hermione, we want to date you," Harry finally said, in a rush.

She stared at them. All the fast, pinwheeling thoughts in her head came to an abrupt and sudden halt. "I'm sorry. _We_? _We_ want to date— that's not how _that works_ ," she spluttered, taking a few steps back from them. "I thought you two were—are you unhappy or something?"

"No, no, no," Harry said, quickly. "We love each other."

"Ehh," Draco disagreed, squinting, and he smothered a smirk when Harry turned again to glare at him.

"You know," Harry muttered. "We knew we weren't going to be shagging her, tonight, but do you really want to not be shagging me, either? Because that's where you're headed." Draco couldn't quite hide his smirk, that time, and Harry grumbled something uncomplimentary under his breath before turning back to her. "We love each other."

"So, what, I'm here to revitalise your sex life or something?" She didn't think she'd ever de-shrill her voice ever again. It was just stuck like this.

" _No_ ," they said, promptly and in unison.

"No, Hermione," Harry murmured, soothingly. "Of course not. This isn't about sex." Draco made that same _ehhh_ noise, and Harry closed his eyes as fury filtered into his expression. "Do I need to ask you to leave?" he snapped. "Would you be of more assistance to me fifty feet away?"

Draco hunched his shoulders. "You can't tell her it's not a _little_ about sex, Potter; that's just inaccurate." When Harry looked ready to hit him, Draco held up his hands in surrender, gesturing at her. "She appreciates accuracy!"

"I'm going to murder you in your sleep," Harry promised, lowly.

Hermione wheeled around, speed-walking away as quickly as her heels would allow her. Harry swore under his breath before plaintively calling after her, "Hermione!" She didn't turn back, even as she heard Draco mutter something inaudible, and Harry's voice rose, incredulous. " _I_ ruined it? You _must_ be joking—"

She told herself she was only having trouble balancing in her heels because of the wine. For the moment, she desperately needed to believe that.

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"Hermione."

"Huh?" she asked, snapping out of her reverie and blinking around the table. She had no idea what her mother had just asked her, so she took a wild guess. "Oh, I'm sorry, uh, yes, it's been going great. I really feel like I'm accomplishing something."

Her parents stared at her.

Delicately, Rose said, "We asked you if you'd done your yearly physical, yet."

"Oh." God, her mind was all over the place. She was a mess. "Ah, no, I haven't. I usually do it in February. I mean, I used to do it in September. Now I do it in February. It just… I changed it." Jesus freaking Christ. She closed her eyes, her face scrunching a bit at her own answer. Her parents were going to have her committed.

David cocked his head a bit, considering her. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," she said, firmly. "Yes. Everything is… grand. Just… really great. Yes."

"Because you don't seem like yourself," he added, slowly. "You seem a little out of sorts, actually. Did something happen?"

Rose gasped. "Did you get sacked?"

"No—what? No," Hermione huffed. No, of all the things in her life, her _job_ was the one that she was unequivocally good at. As soon as she got her work life de-Lucius'd, everything would be peachy.

She stifled a groan as soon as the thought hit: there was no way she'd be able to work with Draco on that, now. The thought of trying to meet with him in private to discuss _anything_ made her stomach do strange, flip-floppy things that she never wanted to have to think about ever again. No, she was _stuck_ with Lucius Malfoy sticking his regal nose into her business. For the rest of her life.

Which was just great.

"Hermione."

Shit. She snapped back to attention. "Uh, yes, that's fine," she stammered.

Her parents shared a frown. "We'd asked how your job was going," Rose murmured, looking concerned. "Maybe you should move your physical up. You're looking a bit peaked, honey." She reached for her, brushing her fingertips across Hermione's forehead.

Unfortunately, Hermione knew damn well she didn't have a fever. "I'm fine," she assured her, quietly. "I'm sorry, my thoughts are just worlds away."

David reached out, too, smoothing his hand across her forearm. "Well, if you _do_ want to talk, you know how to find us. I hope," he joked, and Rose sighed and rolled her eyes. "I mean, we did re-paint the house. It's confusing."

"It's not confusing," Rose huffed, but the corners of her lips were twitching.

Hermione was startled into laughing, and she felt some of the tension leave her. She needed to get herself together before tomorrow; Harry wasn't the sort to leave well enough alone, and she predicted that she'd at least see him around lunch-time, wanting to talk. Sadly, the thought of trying to reassemble her shattered thoughts in just ten hours was more than a little daunting, and she found herself reaching for the wine her mum had set out, taking a larger gulp than strictly necessary.

At the _very_ least, she owed her parents her undivided attention on their birthdays. "Enough about me, really," she chuckled. "How's the practice? Is Marlene still there?"

"Oh, always," David said, shaking his head a bit. "I swear to _God_ she looks the exact same as when we hired her fifteen years ago. The woman doesn't age. She came in ancient, she'll watch us all die, and then she'll drift off to find a new job at the crisp old age of one hundred and four. She's a vampire. One that was turned at a _very_ unfortunate time in her life."

"Be nice," Rose ordered, but her voice was warm with amusement. "She's not a vampire. She definitely looks older."

"She doesn't," he whispered.

"David."

He fell silent, but when Hermione looked at him, stifling a grin, he mouthed: _She doesn't_.

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Harry made it all the way to ten-thirty.

She could feel his presence at the entrance to her cubicle long before he said anything. Swallowing hard, she forced herself to turn. He fidgeted for a moment before exhaling in a rush. "Hey," he said, softly.

"Hey," she whispered back, her throat suddenly raw. No matter what happened, she couldn't lose Harry.

Never Harry.

"Do you think I could steal you for lunch?" His voice was still quiet. Subdued. "We can go and get those fish and chips you like from the pub down the street, and I, um. I'd really love a chance to… talk."

She swallowed again, finding it hard to do so around the sudden lump in her throat. "Yeah," she agreed, immediately—wanting him to understand that there wasn't anything he could do that could chase her away. That was what best friends _were_. Ever-present. Always there for each other. No matter what. "Yeah, that sounds fine."

His shoulders sagged with relief. "Great. I'll come back at eleven-thirty."

She nodded, mutely, and he hesitated awkwardly at the entrance to her cubicle before throwing his hand up in a quick wave and dashing down the corridor.


	3. Preaching From The Third Seat

**The Hedgehog's Dilemma**

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**Chapter Three: Preaching From The Third Seat**

Hermione found herself entirely unable to focus on her work for the hour she waited until Harry came to collect her for lunch. After re-reading the same sentence on the troll treaty proposal about eleven times, she sighed and gave up, pressing her fingers into her eyes until she saw starbursts. All this thinking was giving her the _worst_ kind of headache.

"Miss Granger." She half-turned, summoning a wan smile for her boss. Argle Halfweather was a jolly-looking bloke in his mid-sixties with a stomach that protruded far past his belt. His ever-present cheer and bushy white moustache hid a shrewd gaze that saw far more than he let on. He narrowed his eyes a bit at her, suspicious. "Did you eat?"

"No. But Harry's coming to get me in a few minutes," she added, before he could chastise her, too.

Relaxing a bit, Halfweather nodded. "I need the troll treaty bumped up, if you can. I'm meeting Shacklebolt on Wednesday to discuss it, so I want it as tight as possible. The fewer revisions we're faced with leading up to the summit, the better."

She dipped her chin in acknowledgment. "Yeah, of course. I'll have it to you by close of business tomorrow."

Halfweather smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and turned to go. He was barely out of sight before he leant back into her cubicle, eyebrows raising pointedly. "Don't force me to make your lunch breaks mandatory. If you collapse and die on my watch, Shacklebolt will have my head on a silver platter for breakfast."

Hermione stifled a laugh. "Alright. I promise."

He pointed at his eyes and then at her, the warning clear, and headed back to his office. "Good morning, Mr. Potter," she heard him say, jovially.

She stiffened a bit, not sure if she was grateful for the extra ten seconds of warning or not. In theory, she could have used it to mentally prepare herself, but all she ended up doing was spending the longest ten seconds of her life with a ball of dread forming in her stomach. She was already on her feet by the time Harry appeared, pulling her coat off the coat hook. "I'm ready," she said.

His eyebrows flew up in shock. He'd never _once_ picked Hermione up for lunch or at the end of the work day without her begging for an extra five minutes to finish something.

Sobering (as he realised that this was probably not a good sign), Harry just jerked a nod, watching her put her scarf on. When she had it on, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and headed out, walking slowly to allow her time to catch up.

They walked in silence, the air palpably awkward between them.

Hermione was still trying to figure out how to break the silence when they turned onto the block that housed her favourite pub. She scoured her mind for _any_ sort of ice-breaker or comment and came up completely blank. Frustrated at herself, she barely noticed that he'd stopped walking, and she was reaching for the door before she realised that he was no longer beside her.

Frowning, she turned to face him, her hand dropping back to her side. "Harry?"

He was chewing the inside of his cheek, his gaze pinned to somewhere around her feet. As she stepped closer, his eyes slowly raised to her face. There was no trace of a smile, awkward or otherwise, on his face now. "How do you think of me?" he asked, quietly.

Blinking rapidly, she just stared at him for several seconds. "Uh… What?"

"How do you think of me?" he repeated, patiently. When that didn't seem to do the trick, he rephrased: "What do you feel towards me, Hermione?"

Panic crawled up her spine. "You're my best friend. You mean everything to me."

His smile was fleeting and humourless. "That's not really what I'm asking," he said, wryly, and she suddenly found it hard to swallow. "You know I'm in love with you, right?"

And then she stopped breathing. Frozen, all she could do was stare blindly as he continued.

"I've been in love with you for years." He seemed to be having trouble getting the words out but was forcing them through his teeth by sheer force of will. "Since… I don't know when, really. It happened so gradually that I just sort of became _aware_ of it, I guess, when Ginny and I called it quits."

She sucked in a breath, her lungs burning for it. "You didn't say anything."

"How could I?" Laughing, he shook his head. "You were with Ron. And happy as could be. What was I going to do, shove him to the side and beg you to consider me, instead? You were going to marry him and have a family, I could already _see_ that. You were so desperately in love with him. I couldn't—I couldn't." His gaze dropped. "I couldn't have done that to either of you. I mean, admit it, Hermione, when it came to him or me, it was never a contest."

Her eyebrows were drawn together, a line creasing between them. She wasn't sure what to say. She couldn't argue that it _had_ been a contest.

Despite all of Ron's insecurity growing up, Harry's popularity had been almost entirely predicated on his pre-existing fame. For the most part, he was an introverted boy that grew exhausted by too much socialising, and she didn't doubt that if he _hadn't_ been famous, he wouldn't have been remotely remarkable. As it was, he _had_ been famous, and his retiring nature was interpreted as mysterious and enigmatic.

Ron's charisma was real. He shone like a beacon, and if Harry _hadn't_ been famous, Hermione thought he would have easily been the star of their year. When Ron spoke to someone, they felt special. He was funny, easy-going, and _likeable_.

It was funny, in a twisted sort of way. For all Ron feared that Harry would swoop in and steal the girl, it was really Harry that hadn't stood a chance.

"And then," he continued when the silence stretched. He didn't look disappointed that she hadn't tried to disagree with his assessment, just resigned. "I was already dating Draco when you and Ron broke up. I couldn't… I mean, by the time you were _over Ron_ , I already knew I was going to be too far gone with him. It was too late."

"Are..." Her voice was a croak, and she stopped and cleared her throat, embarrassed. "Are you two breaking up?"

He shook his head, promptly. "No. No, I love him," he said, firmly. "Our relationship is far from over. I couldn't give him up with a gun to my head."

"Then why are you doing this?" she whispered.

"Because he likes you, too." She scoffed automatically, and he licked his lips, shaking his head again. "I mean it, Hermione. He does. He's attracted to you. I already know you're attracted to him—stop shaking your head, yes, you are—and I really think you two could have something great together, too. I think this is possible. We've been talking about it for months."

 _Months_. Good Lord. "You've been planning this," she said, her voice flat with shock. "For months. This is… I'm starving." She wasn't. She'd never been less hungry in her whole life. She just needed a few minutes to think before she continued this damned conversation. "We're wasting my lunch break, can we go in?"

Harry shifted from foot to foot, looking torn between agreeing (obviously in as much need of a distraction as she was) and his need for some sort of solid resolution to this mess. "As soon as you answer my question."

"What question?"

He took another step towards her, and she took a half-step back, her back falling against the brick wall. "How do you feel about me?" His voice was soft, almost bruised. "Is it just as a friend? A brother? Is that really all? Because I thought I _sensed_ something—sometimes. I really thought…" Trailing off, his eyes flicked down to her lips again, and she felt her stomach flip-flop.

Bracing a hand against the wall, he leant in, slow. Tortuously slow. His eyes were locked on hers, waiting for her to shove him away, or scream, or run.

When she did none of those things, he brushed his lips over hers. She jolted, somehow still surprised by the contact, something sharp and electric running through her. His eyes were still on hers, searching. It took her a second to realise that he was looking for any signs of disgust. When he didn't find one, he made that noise again—that sigh of pure relief—and his eyes closed as he pressed into her, the kiss deepening.

She was slow to respond, still reeling, and she'd only just begun to experimentally do so when the pub door opened.

"Is this why you're late?" Draco's voice was bland, almost bored.

Hermione jerked back so hard that her head slammed into the brick. "Ow," she hissed, reaching up to touch the spot. She was going to get a bruise.

Harry's hands slipped off her waist (when had they gotten _there_?) and he said, in a dry tone, "You really have the worst timing."

"I'm _starving_ ," Draco complained. "And I've been waiting. I'm going to order." With that announcement, he turned and stalked back into the pub, huffing all the way.

Sighing, Harry offered her a wry smile. "You get used to that."

Honestly, Hermione was just surprised that Draco's main objection was that he hadn't been able to order food yet. Shooting Harry a frazzled look, she asked, "He seems pretty wound up about this. Harry, I don't think this is a good idea—"

"He's fine," he interrupted, firmly. "He's just a brat. He's as invested in this as I am."

"I… am not sure I'm able to believe that," she muttered, but followed him into the pub all the same. Draco still looked irritated as he stood, letting her slide into the booth. He quickly sat down beside her, essentially fencing her in.

"Finally," he said, disapprovingly. "I ordered for you both."

She began to protest. "You didn't know what I wanted—"

"You wanted fish and chips." He stretched his arm over the back of the booth, and she felt a faint tug on her scalp and realised he was _playing with her hair_. "And Potter wanted a Reuben." He sent Harry a challenging look but was met with an indulgent smile and no complaints. Satisfied, he slanted a look at Hermione from the corners of his eyes. "Have you read up on it, yet?"

A little taken aback by the abrupt change of topic, she frowned. "On what?"

"Polyamorous relationships."

She stared at him blankly, and he swore under his breath, dropping her hair from his fingertips and bringing his arm back to his side of the booth. "She didn't research it. She's not ready," he declared, with a note of finality.

"She doesn't _need_ to—"

"Potter," Draco interrupted, coldly. Never before in all of history had she heard a word so dripping with condescension. "She has never done a single thing in her whole life that she hasn't read at least four textbooks on. She won't be making a decision until she can write an essay on it." Harry sighed, falling silent as he conceded the point, and Draco fished some shrunken books out of his pocket. As he pressed them into her palm, he ordered, "Start with these. If you need more, you'll have to go to the shop yourself. I want seven feet of parchment by tomorrow."

Hermione stared at the little squares, her brain churning sluggishly to try and understand what was happening.

That was one thing she hated about this, she supposed. She hated feeling _unbalanced_. She hated not knowing what was going on. She hated not having answers, and not knowing what to do. She hated watching them have a conversation around her, having already discussed this for _several months_ and thus able to talk circles around her while she struggled to conquer even the barest amount of understanding for the situation.

She didn't feel autonomous.

And Hermione Granger was _no one's_ pawn. Closing her fingers around the books, she put them in her coat pocket, glad to have a place to start. Bless Draco, really, for understanding that about her. "Thanks."

He didn't acknowledge her gratitude, taking a sip of his pint instead.

She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. It shouldn't be possible, really, but Draco Malfoy had somehow mastered the art of being simultaneously annoying and endearing. The last two years of watching Harry balance frustration with fondness suddenly fell into sharp clarity for her. There was simply something that was almost _cute_ about the blond's prickly exterior.

Perhaps because it couldn't be more obvious that it was housing a soft underbelly.

When the food arrived, they ate, keeping conversation light. Admittedly, she was relieved that they were both making a clear effort to remain friendly, despite everything that was going on. She didn't think she could stand to lose Harry to this.

She tried really hard not to think about what might happen if she said no.

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Hermione read everything she could find on the subject. First, she tore through Draco's books, but none of them were specifically about polyamory relationships. Rather, they were an assembly of various representations of human sexuality, of which a chapter (or three) was generally dedicated to the subject that actually pertained to her. She ended up at a Muggle bookshop, flushing as she bought a small book _entirely_ about polyamory.

In the end, though, reading wasn't enough. Harry kept his distance the next day at work, giving her a little extra time to work through it, and she found herself knocking on Ron's door that night.

She was _not_ sure about going to him, if she were being honest with herself. Her first choice would have been Ginny, usually, but she couldn't trust the redhead to keep it a proper secret. Even when Ginny _thought_ she was keeping a secret, she ended up making sly remarks that were about as subtle as a faceful of bricks.

Ron wasn't very good at keeping secrets, either, although it certainly wasn't for lack of trying. He just didn't have a very good poker face.

In the end, though, she was hard-pressed to find anyone that knew her well enough to advise her.

"Hermione," he said, surprised. It had taken him a few extra seconds to fumble with the locks on his door, and he grinned as he pulled it open to invite her in. "Why didn't you use the Floo?"

"I was taking a walk," she explained, with a sigh. "You're not busy, are you?" She glanced around for company but didn't see any. Although she'd been entirely celibate since the break-up, she knew Ron hadn't. He never dated anyone for longer than a few weeks, though.

"No. Between 'em at the moment," he admitted. "I'm giving myself a break. Dating's hard. You set a really high standard, you know? Looking back, I can't even _believe_ how low-maintenance you were. All I had to do was stomach the occasional trip to a museum, and you were absolutely _delighted_ by my commitment to your interests."

Rolling her eyes, she shrugged out of her coat and dropped it onto the back of his couch. "What a _shame_ , that you had to be cultured twice a year."

"It was _agony_ ," he agreed, cheerfully ignoring her sarcasm. "Want a cuppa?"

"Please." She didn't tell him Earl Grey. After five years, he could make her favourite tea in his sleep. Sinking into his armchair, she allowed herself a moment to just sit and _breathe_ , thinking about nothing in particular. The moment passed quickly, though, and soon she was trying to figure out how to bring it up without sending Ron into a Shock Coma.

After a few minutes, he returned with two mugs and passed one to her. "I can see that something's on your mind," he said, by way of invitation.

"Harry just confessed that he's in love with me," she said, and watched him spit his sip of tea back into the mug. He coughed, his face reddening and eyes tearing up, and stared at her in open bewilderment through it. When her face didn't change, he shook his head, unwilling to accept it. "Yesterday. And that he's been in love with me for years."

Ron managed to clear the tea out of his oesophagus and sucked in a few ragged breaths. "Cor, I think I'm going to die," he wheezed. "I thought he was all home-y happy with the Ferret."

"He is. They're deeply in love."

He just stared at her, unable to process that, and Hermione felt a _little_ vindicated. After talking to only Harry and Draco about it—both of whom seemed to think that this was a perfectly normal situation—watching Ron struggle to wrap his head around it felt _nice_. "And how's he going to reconcile that, then?" he asked, uncertainly.

"By having all three of us date each other simultaneously." Her matter-of-fact tone did nothing to ease the shock of the proclamation.

Ron's gaze unfocused a bit as he stared at nothing. "I'm going to need more tea to get through this one," he suddenly decided, standing. "I'm going to put the stock pot on."

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It was an hour later before he finally got the full story _and_ had processed it to the point where he could begin to have a conversation. "This is crazy," he murmured, eyes wide. "I don't think I saw this coming. In _any_ capacity. I don't think anyone did."

She shook her head. "Me neither. I'm a little blindsided, if I'm being honest."

"Well, I mean, first things first." He set his mug down. "Do you have feelings for him? Harry."

Hermione looked helplessly at him. "I don't know," she whispered. "I just—I've never thought about him that way. I only ever thought about _you_ , and obviously he was with Ginny, it just… it didn't even occur to me."

Ron straightened, his grin crooked and satisfied. "Only ever thought about me, did you?"

"Oh, shut up," she snapped, rolling her eyes.

He laughed. "He really bollocksed things up, then, didn't he? I mean, if you'd known he liked you back then… well, game over, right? You always got on with him better than with me. He was an idiot for not letting you know."

Oh, Ron. He could be so intuitive half the time, and then the other half, he was so stupid that Hermione didn't even know where to _begin_ correcting him. "I wouldn't have picked him."

"Sure, you would have."

"No, I wouldn't," she said, firmly. "I was in love with _you_. Like every other girl in that tower." Ron made a scoffing noise, and Hermione glared at him. "Please," she said, crisply. "I shared dorms with that gaggle of idiots for six years. The only person more widely fancied in Gryffindor was Jordan."

Well, technically Harry had his admirers (a lot of them), but she didn't count them. Because, by and large, she wasn't sure any of their admiration was entirely untainted from the fact that he was the most well-known teenaged wizard in Britain.

He hesitated but stopped arguing, his lips twisting wryly. She wondered if he wished he could go back in time and give his past self a dose or two of more confidence. "Well, then… That just brings us back to the big question. Harry's in love with you. That's established. Could you _see_ yourself loving him?"

Hermione chewed on the inside of her cheek, feeling her stomach turn to lead. "I think so," she whispered.

"And your thoughts on Malfoy?"

She squinted. "A lot more complicated. I'm not sure I could make it a week into a relationship with him _without_ wanting to beat him over the head with a skillet."

"He _is_ annoying," Ron agreed. "It does sound like he's part of the deal, though."

Groaning, she sank into the armchair, folding her knees up towards her chest and covering her face with her hands. "I don't know what to _do_ ," she wailed, curling up into as tight a ball as she could manage. "What if I say no, and Harry can't bring himself to be friends with me? What would I do, Ron?"

"Don't be daft," he exclaimed, barking with laughter. Standing, he strode to the chair and wrapped his arms around her, lifting the entire miserable little ball of her up, and walked with her to the couch. "Harry could not live without you." He dropped himself onto the couch, and she squawked on impact as he settled her in his lap, rocking her gently back and forth. "No matter what. He's not going anywhere. Malfoy, though, _there's_ a bloke who can't handle rejection. I'd expect rat poison in your tea for a while, from him."

She let herself be rocked for a second. "I'm not a baby."

"Are you sure? You're whinging like one." He yelled as she slapped at him, dropping her in his lap to shield his face with his hands. "Hey! You can't ask me for help and then slap me!"

"I don't know, I think turning you into putty would actually make me feel better." His arms flew around her, locking her in place as she struggled. When she ran out of energy, she went limp. "Of course, there's the strength disparity, which makes the dream of physically beating you into pudding slightly unattainable."

His grin was smug. "You forget about that with alarming frequency."

Laughing, she pressed her face against his chest. Even though they weren't seeing each other, Ron's presence would always hold a certain amount of _comfort_. At the very least, she could always count on him to lighten her mood. "I'm buggered, aren't I?"

"You'll be fine," he said, firmly. "You're Hermione Granger. You're always fine."

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Harry kept his distance the next day, too. She wondered how much it was killing him to leave this unresolved. After turning in the troll treaty, she headed over to the Auror department, not wanting to keep him in miserable suspense for much longer. The department didn't have the relative privacy of cubicles, just a sea of desks.

Like the other Aurors, Harry's desk was pushed up against his partner's so that they were facing each other. She didn't see Davis, though.

Approaching from behind, she gently knocked on the wood of the desk. He looked up, his eyebrows flying up with surprise. The parade of emotions that marched over his face was fascinating: hope, relief, worry. The fact that she was seeking him out after so short an amount of time was probably concerning. It wasn't like her to make decisions on hard issues like this so promptly.

"Hey," he said, setting his quill down.

Hermione glanced around at the other desks. "Can I swing by after feeding Crooks?"

The hope in his expression was slowly winning, and she couldn't bring herself to crush it, yet. Because the truth was, she didn't _know_ what her answer was. She just knew she had to provide one sooner rather than later. "Yeah, of course," he said, perking up slightly, and she fought down a grimace. "Any time is fine. You want to stay for dinner?"

 _Maybe_. "Sure," she said. "I'll see you then, okay?"

He nodded eagerly. "Yeah, great. Yes."

Waving, she turned and walked towards the entrance to the department, trying to convince herself that she didn't feel his gaze boring holes into her back the entire way. Just as she was about to leave, she snuck a glance back, feeling her heart drop a bit; he hadn't turned back to his desk and was looking at his hands, a faint smile on his face.

"Oh, God," she muttered to herself. She'd really better not bollocks this up.

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When she Flooed in, Harry and Draco were both waiting. "Hullo," she said. They were sitting on opposite sides of the room, both on a couch. She tried not to consider the idea that they were forcing her to have to sit next to one of them. It was probably a coincidence.

Or it wasn't. Slytherin fuckery could not be discounted at any time.

She eventually chose Draco's couch, dimly aware that being in any sort of proximity to Harry was going to make her decision a lot more emotionally driven. With Draco, she could at least count on the fact that he'd piss her off and keep her mind clear.

As she sat, Harry leant forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. When she looked at a loss, he spoke to fill in the gap, too kind to let her flounder. "So, did you think about it?"

"Yes," she said. After a pause, she added, "And I have some questions."

Draco sighed. "Naturally."

"The first of them being: Where did you get all these books and why do you have them?" She fished them out of her pocket, passing them back to Draco, who took them and dumped them on the side table.

When he turned back to her, he spoke quickly, cutting Harry off before he even started. "Well, you see, Potter thinks that leaving books lying around and abruptly bringing up how 'odd' and 'strange' polyamory relationships are is a subtle way of bringing me around to the idea. After finding these littered all over the house, putting two and two together was a fairly easy affair."

Flushed, Harry plucked at an errant thread on his sleeve, grimacing in faint embarrassment. "It wasn't like that," he muttered, although it clearly was.

"Well, that brings me to my second concern," Hermione said, slowly. "Which is that _you_ really do not seem to be interested in this idea, in any capacity, and seem to just be going along with it because he wants to. And that's a little troubling. Draco, you can barely stand me."

"That's not true. You are, by _far_ , the least tedious of Potter's social circle."

Her eyes narrowed. He really was a prat. "That's hardly a _glowing review_ and does _not_ dispel my concerns. Look, I don't want to get in the middle of this and break you two up—"

"Oh, Merlin," Draco snapped. "You have the largest ego I've ever seen on a woman."

Harry raised a hand to stall him. "Calm down. You know she didn't mean it like that," he said, lips thinning a bit at Draco's tone.

"Then she shouldn't _say it_ like that."

"Draco."

Hermione shook her head. "No, no. This is my point," she said. "Draco, you _don't like_ _me_. And from what I understand, that's a fairly crucial aspect of dating another person." Filled with anxious energy, she jumped to her feet, pacing a bit. "Forcing yourself to put up with me isn't going to help him, you know. It's just going to ruin everything for no reason."

"Draco likes you," Harry repeated, patiently, and Hermione shot him a _look_.

She glanced at Draco, who was simmering furiously on the couch, and then gestured to him as she looked back at Harry. "Look at him. On his best days, he dislikes me _slightly less_. He can't even make it a full thirty seconds without making some nasty remark about me, my life, my choices…"

"You realise that's what he does to me, right?" Harry pointed out, eyebrows lifting.

She stalled, mentally puttering through what she knew of their relationship. After a moment of failing to form a coherent sentence, she spluttered, "That's different."

"How?"

"It just—it is!" she exclaimed. Just because she couldn't articulate _how_ didn't mean it _wasn't_.

Draco's expression was stony, his grey eyes locked on her, only hinting at how deeply he was seething beneath the surface. "You are fucking infuriating," he said, his voice brutally calm.

"Yes! And that's my _point_ —What are you doing?" She took a few steps back as he stood, briefly straightening his waistcoat before striding towards her. "Draco, I'm warning—Hey!" She fumbled for her wand just as her back hit the wall.

His hand locked around her wrist as she drew it, holding her wand safely away from him as he pushed into her personal space with ruthless efficiency. Before she had a chance to say anything else, he'd molded his body to hers, pressing her into the wall as he dipped his head down. He didn't start off slow, like Harry. One second, she was breathing and panicking, and the next second, she was drowning in fire.

Draco's lips seared against hers, his thigh pressing between her legs. She jumped when it made contact, and he chuckled darkly in his throat, nipping at her lower lip. His grip tightened on her wrist, and she felt her wand slip from her fingers. It clattered to the floor.

When he pulled back, it was only a bit, his eyes flicking over her face to gauge her expression.

She wasn't sure if there was anything to gauge. Shell-shocked, she just stared back, her eyes wide. Slowly, his lips curved into a smirk, apparently liking whatever he saw in her eyes.

"I can definitely more than stand you, Granger," he promised, lowly. His eyes flicked back down to her lips, and she gulped, feeling her entire body erupt into goosebumps. "Want me to show you?" His hand molded against her hip, and he pressed his thigh forward into her, pushing her up onto her toes with a mortified little squeak.

"Alright," Harry said, sounding a little breathless. Hermione's eyes slowly panned to him. He was sitting straighter, watching the two of them in a hungry way that made her throat close a little. "I think she gets the point."

Draco hummed, considering her for a moment, and then slowly eased back. She sucked in a ragged breath, feeling like it was the first one she'd taken in _minutes_.

Hermione remained frozen, stuck to the wall with her wand lying at her feet, as Draco meandered back across the room. His mercurial nature was as intriguing as it was alarming, really. The way that he could go from perfectly calm to utterly _savage_ and right back to calm unsettled her. She was not quite ready to admit that it also aroused her, so instead she took _that_ thought and stuffed it deep down inside for a day when she was feeling strong enough to handle it.

"Let's go out," Harry suggested, still pinning Hermione with that hopeful look that made it _so hard_ for her to remember the various reasons she'd had for why this wasn't a good idea. "We can grab something quick to eat. Maybe go dancing."

Inhaling raggedly, she looked between them. Harry looked like a puppy being taunted with a treat, his eyes wide and hopeful. Draco looked like the smug little shit that he was, his smirk half-hidden by his hand and his eyelids drooping lazily as he watched her. She could still feel the heat of his kiss, and felt her cheeks warm.

This was the most ridiculous thing to have ever happened, by a pretty wide margin. Feeling slightly hysterical, she laughed, the pitch a little high-strung. "Well, Jesus, might as well," she scoffed, throwing her hands up in surrender. "The night couldn't possibly get any weirder."

It hurt to look at the wide grin that spread across Harry's face. "I've still got some of Ginny's old clothes upstairs."

"Oh, _no_."

"They're pre-Pansy," he assured her, jumping to his feet.

"You say that like that era wasn't just as bad," she complained, folding her arms in front of herself. But she let Harry grab her arm, towing her towards the stairs. From what she remembered, Ginny wore a lot of things that were _tight_ and _revealing_.

Draco tilted his head to watch them. "Should I come, or will there not be any nudity?"

Hermione shot him a scowl. "There will _not_ be any nudity."

"I'll stay here, then."

She pointed at Draco, turning to glare at Harry. "Your taste is terrible."

"You _do_ realise that my taste includes you?"

She pointed harder as if that would somehow prove her point. "Your taste in _men_ ," she clarified, huffily, and he chuckled and herded her to the top of the stairs and down the hallway.


	4. Kyogen Mounts The Tree

**The Hedgehog's Dilemma**

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**Chapter Four: Kyogen Mounts The Tree**

The burger shop was, in a single phrase, _well below Draco's standards_. His expression had become instantly pained the second they entered, his grey eyes scouring the greasy walls and unkempt employees with avid distaste. For a second, Hermione was worried that the sneer would wear permanent grooves into his face, like a gargoyle.

"If you keep your face like that, it'll stick that way," she said, with a sweet-sounding undertone.

He glared at her. "I'm not eating here. It's filthy."

Her expression was all wide-eyed innocence. "You're just going to watch us eat, then?" His sneer intensified, and she imagined casting it in stone and putting it up on some local churches to scare off the pigeons.

Harry sensed Draco's resistance and didn't even _try_ to coax him up to the counter, instead just ordering for him. "One cheeseburger. _Plain_." Then he glanced at Hermione, hesitating only a moment before adding, "And another, with cheddar, and extra pickles."

It wouldn't have normally stood out to her that Harry knew how she liked a _burger_ , but with all that was going on, she found it difficult _not_ to read into everything to an extreme level.

"Drink?" the cashier sighed, practically leaking existential despair.

"Get me chips," Hermione whispered, before turning back to try and force Draco into a seat. The blond was currently standing by the door, his shoulders hunched around his ears with a damning scowl on his face. He kind of reminded her of a very angry owl, all fluffed up, eyes flared wide with an eldritch hate. "Where do you want to sit?"

"At _Pacibels_ ," he snapped, referring to a posh restaurant about twenty blocks north.

She tapped her foot against a nearby chair. "This close enough?"

Draco glared at Harry's back, watching his boyfriend accept a number and a promise that the food would be out shortly, and growled in his throat a bit as he eased himself stiffly into a seat. He sat on the very edge of it, hoping to minimise whatever contamination it might contain.

Hermione huffed a soft laugh as she sat across from him, having no trouble at all utilising the seat in its entirety.

When Harry arrived, it was with two drinks—a large cup, and a smaller one, both already capped and with straws in. He handed Hermione the small one, apparently not about to push his luck by demanding she share with the two of them. "Coca-cola," he told her, sliding the drink towards her as he sat.

"Hope it's diet," Draco said under his breath, jerking a bit when Harry kicked him under the table.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. Leaning forward, she wrapped her lips around the straw and took a big, _long_ sip. As she was currently in Ginny's skinniest jeans and a low-cut top, she was already waging a war with the self-conscious side of her that insisted she go back to Harry's and put on a big, loose jumper _right then and there_. Of course, with Draco making snide comments, it was easy to tell her self-conscious side to stuff it, so long as it meant wordlessly telling _him_ to stuff it, too.

The blond rolled his eyes at her defiant gesture and went back to glaring around the shop.

Harry turned towards her, his eyes flicking down to her exposed cleavage automatically before he dragged them back up. His cheeks tinted pink as he assured her, "You still look great."

"People like me were not meant to wear Ginny's clothes," she said, firmly. "You know I completely skipped over my crazy university phase."

"It's not too late to have it."

Hermione laughed, fiddling with her straw. It squeaked, and Draco's frown intensified. So (of course) she did it some more. "You already did yours with Ginny. What, am I going to get pissed nightly and wake up in strange places all by myself?"

"Is it _my fault_ that you decided to wait so long?" Harry demanded, folding his hand over his heart. "Should I be punished for your lack of achievements?"

" _Achievements_ ," she repeated, scoffing.

He inclined his head, sagely. "Those are important milestones, Hermione. One could argue that you can't be considered a full adult until you've passed them."

"One _could_ , if one were willing to admit to themselves that they're idiotic."

Harry snatched at her drink, his nose wrinkling as she quickly yanked it out of his reach. " _One_ does not like the tone you're taking," he warned, with a hint of teasing. "And one is feeling a little inclined to take all your chips for oneself."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Merlin!" Draco exploded. They both gaped at him in surprise, and he stared back, openly incredulous. "Is that what you two idiots consider _flirting_? You." He pinned Hermione with his stare. "No wonder you're single. And you, Potter, I don't even have the appropriate vocabulary to explain just how _much_ you've lucked out in our situation."

Hermione's jaw dropped. "We were not flirting!"

"You are in a right foul mood, luv," Harry informed Draco. When he received an angry huff in response, he added, "We're only going to be in here for ten minutes, at the very most. Buck up."

Draco's lips thinned. "I hate this place. I hate these tables. I hate _this_ table the _most_."

"Harry, you are dating an actual toddler." Hermione continued to squeak her straw, enjoying the way Draco's eye had started to twitch. "Do you ever just wake up next to this beast and think, _Why? Why did I do it? For attention? For the challenge? To prove to myself that I really could let bygones be bygones?_ "

Harry grimaced. "That's an awfully long way to go to prove I've buried the hatchet. Who am I proving that to, in this scenario, by the way?"

"The public," she said, after a moment's thought.

He hummed. "Well, I suppose that makes sense. I wouldn't want them to think I'm the sort to hold grudges. That'd be awfully embarrassing. And, as you know, nothing says _grudge-free_ like offering your bum up to your former arch-nemesis for sexual gratification. I think that's about as far as 'turning the other cheek' can _possibly_ be taken."

Hermione considered it, squeaking her straw all the faster and ignoring Draco's increasing fury. "That's true. You should get some sort of commendation. Harry Potter: The new standard of excellence in forgiveness. Better watch out, Gandhi."

"Having fun?" Draco ground out, his jaw clenching.

She smiled blandly, still fiddling with her straw as she watched his face. She saw the _exact_ moment he realised that she knew exactly how annoying she was being, and his eyes went wide for precisely half a second before narrowing into dangerous slits.

When his hand darted out, she was ready, pulling her drink off the table so she could continue squeaking her straw in peace.

She'd never seen him look so murderous.

"Stop it."

"Or what?" she challenged, squeaking the straw again.

Harry sighed. "Hermione, don't wind him up. He doesn't need the help," he complained, grabbing her straw and yanking it out entirely. Droplets of cola scattered across the table as he put it in his far hand. When she reached for it, he held it away from her. "You've lost straw privileges. Take the lid off and sip."

Her jaw dropped a bit. _Sip_ from the _cup_? Like an _animal_? "What? I'll stop."

"My decision is final." He tossed the straw into the rubbish bin. With impeccable aim, too.

Glowering, she slouched in her chair and pried the lid off the cup, sipping at it. Draco looked insufferably smug, and she stuck her tongue out at him when Harry's attention drifted away from her.

The food arrived, then, and she briefly forgot her animosity. They ate in relative silence (she was gratified to note that despite his tantrum, Draco barely even hesitated before picking his burger up; apparently in the case of Hunger vs. Standards, hunger won). She was so focused on keeping mustard off her borrowed top that she didn't even gripe when they both started digging into her chips.

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Hermione peered up at the sign. _Neighbours._ "Neighbours," she murmured. She could hear music pulsating from the building, and felt a pang of sympathy for all the flats on this street. "I've never heard of it."

Shrugging, Harry reached up and fixed Draco's collar. "It's for people of a certain _inclination_."

"Oh," she said, glancing at the line to get in. She wasn't sure why she hadn't noticed the obvious majority of gay men on the way up the street. There were girls mixed in, too, but they didn't even come close to outnumbering the men. She found herself wondering how many of the women were lesbians versus straight women who just wanted a night out without having to fend off the inexpert attentions of straight men.

As she looked, a hand settled into the small of her back, gently ushering her forward as the line moved. It took her a moment to realise that it was Draco. Startling a bit (since when was he ever _gentle_?), she shot him a curious look from the corners of her eyes.

He either ignored her or didn't notice, his gaze steady on the bouncer ahead.

After ten minutes of waiting and flashing their IDs—she was going to have to ask Harry where on Earth he'd gotten Draco's, because it was a darn good fake—they were funnelled into a dark corridor. The beat of the music reverberated through the walls, promising to be truly deafening when they actually got inside.

And, she thought when they finally entered the club, it did _not_ disappoint. Wincing automatically as it wormed into her ears and straight into her brain, she wordlessly followed Harry to the bar.

"What do you want?" he shouted.

"I have work tomorrow," she responded, shaking her head. He pursed his lips, eyebrows raising in silent judgement, and she rolled her eyes. "Alright. A screwdriver. _One_."

He leant over the crush of people to give their order to the bartender, offering a grin to one of the men he'd inadvertently bumped. Bless his dimples, because the man's irritation faded away promptly as he twisted in his seat to say hello.

Turning back towards the dance floor, Hermione jolted when she realised how closely Draco was standing to her.

"You should call out, tomorrow," he suggested.

She snorted. "No."

His arm slipped around her waist, pulling her close to him. She stiffened before she realised he was only moving her to make room for a couple trying to reach the bar, glancing over her shoulder at them as they brushed past. When they were gone, though, Draco didn't let go. He turned a bit to look around, a movement that _almost_ disguised the way his hand drifted down an inch or two. Gasping, she punched his side, and he winced and shied away from her. She caught the shadow of a smirk as he pulled away, though, and glared at him.

 _Arsehole_ , she mouthed at him, and he just shrugged, looking completely unrepentant.

She was still staring daggers at him when Harry returned, balancing their three drinks between his hands. Taking hers, she sipped and grimaced. It was _very_ strong. _Definitely_ only _one_ of these, then.

"Hurry up," Harry shouted. "So we can dance."

Hermione's nose wrinkled. "You _know_ I'm rubbish at dancing."

"Well, _we're_ not. We'll make sure you look good," he promised, his eyes twinkling. His tongue flipped over his lips after his next sip to catch an errant drop of whatever he was drinking, and Hermione inhaled sharply, remembering their kiss outside the pub.

She hadn't allowed herself to think about it, before, but now she couldn't help it: _It had been nice_. She kind of wanted to do it again.

Of course, the thought of doing so was more than a little terrifying.

Shoving those distracting thoughts away, she took a large swig of her drink, suddenly eager to get tipsy. Maybe this would all feel less awful and awkward if she were somewhat inebriated. Harry and Draco were slugging their drinks back like professionals, and she was the last one to finish by a wide margin. The second she set her empty glass down, though, they both grabbed an arm each and dragged her out into the crush of the dance floor.

For a second, Hermione froze, not really sure what to do.

She was looking at a nearby couple—trying to determine whether or not she could pull off doing something similar—when Harry grasped her hands and put them over his shoulders. Instinctively, she glanced around for Draco to assure herself that he was fine with this, and found him behind her.

Knowing where he was didn't prepare her for his hands on her hips, though. When they drifted a little too far behind her, she twisted around to glare at him. "What is with you and my arse?" she demanded.

"It's a nice one," he responded, by way of defence.

 _Well_ , that was a far cry from his comment in the burger shop. She wanted to say something, but she figured he'd probably take it as an invitation to touch it some more. "Well, admire it with your eyes, not your hands."

"You are _negative_ amounts of fun. When you enter a room, you suck the fun _out_." But his hands returned to her hips.

Shaking her head, Hermione turned back to Harry, her lips pursed. He was pressing his lips together to keep from smiling at her predicament. He couldn't hold it for long, though, and soon the grin was back out. At her basilisk stare, he said, "Come on, you can't tell me you wouldn't find this funny, in my position."

"You are impossible."

"It's _funny_ , Hermione," he insisted, laughing. His hands were higher on her waist, above Draco's.

This was definitely strange, feeling four hands on her. If she _did_ acquiesce to trying this insane experiment, she'd have a lot to get used to.

She pursed her lips. "It is not."

"You're smiling."

"No, I _am not_ ," she said, strongly, but no amount of ire in her voice could disguise the fact that she was beginning to. "Harry Potter, stop laughing _this instant_."

"I'm the Chosen One, I can do what I want!"

Her face scrunched, frustrated at her own amusement. At a loss for how to retaliate, she ended up reaching up and grabbing his ears, twisting them like a scolding mother. He yelped, dropping down a bit in height to try and relieve the pressure. "What did you say?" she asked, calmly.

His face was screwed up in pain. "I'm the Chosen One," he managed, stubbornly. She twisted a little harder. "Augh—I didn't say anything!"

"Oh, that's what I thought." She released him, and he straightened, rubbing his ears and shooting her a baleful look. She beamed at him. "Something to add, _Potter_?"

"No," he muttered. Then, "You're mean."

"I am _sure_ I have no idea what you're talking about." She looped her hands around his neck again and twisted around to look over her shoulder again. "Touch my arse again and see what happens, Draco."

Draco sighed, putting the customary two inches between their hips, again. "Why'd you choose the least fun person on the _planet_ , Potter? How many more drinks do we put into her before we get the Granger that grabbed my arse on New Year's? I don't think I minded that one. A bit grabby, but we could probably train that out of her."

"I'm not drinking anymore. Also, I was just kidding around."

He didn't look impressed, his eyes going half-lidded as he regarded her. "Sounds like you're kidding _yourself_ ," he pointed out, looking satisfied when two twin spots of colour rose to her cheeks. "Thought so."

She turned back to Harry, who was smothering a smile again. "Not a word," she warned him.

"I didn't say anything!"

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

When they got a second round of drinks, she held firm. But when they got the _third_ round, she caved and asked for another screwdriver. At that point, her reasoning was a little too impaired to resist the urge for a _third_ drink, even though she knew she'd be regretting it the next day. They left soon after (mostly because she insisted on at least being given a _chance_ to sleep before work the next day) and she was pleasantly tipsy on the walk back to the Leaky Cauldron.

"Try again," Harry ordered. She was clinging to his arm to help keep her balance. It didn't keep her from occasionally stumbling.

Inhaling, Hermione focused. "Hermione Grayler flat. _Gragner_. Grajjer."

"She is going to end up in _Germany_ if we put her through the Floo," Draco scoffed, watching in fascination as she continued trying to sound out her own last name.

"Granger… danger flat." Her eyes lit up. "What if my last name was Danger, Harry?"

Harry chuckled. "That would be... very interesting, Hermione." He caught Draco's incredulous look (he'd seen Hermione drunk before, but not off _three drinks_ ) and shrugged a bit. "I'll Floo with her to make sure she doesn't end up halfway across the world. I'll be right behind you."

Draco nodded, holding the door to the Leaky open for them both.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

She tripped as she spilt out of the Floo, and Harry just barely caught her, laughing. "Easy, easy," he said, pulling her back to her feet as she burst into a flurry of giggles. "Alright, at this point, I don't even trust you to tuck yourself in, so here we go. You okay?"

Hermione nodded, still chortling as he led her down the hallway to her bedroom.

Carefully depositing her on the bed, he considered trying to get her into something more comfortable but promptly dismissed the idea. With everything that was going on, it'd probably be best if she didn't wake up the next morning knowing that her best friend (who was trying to get into her knickers) undressed her. Instead, he plucked at the straps on her shoes and got those off. "What time do you wake up, Hermione?"

"Six," she said, and then started laughing again as he programmed her alarm clock. "How do you know how to do that? That's mine."

He bit back an indulgent smile. She was adorable. "It's fairly standard across the board."

Once that was done, he pulled the blanket out from underneath her and draped it over her. As he straightened, her hand shot out, fisting in the front of his shirt. Blinking in surprise, he looked at her, raising his eyebrows in silent question. Her eyes had suddenly cleared, focusing on him for the first time since her third drink. She didn't immediately do anything.

"Hermione?" he murmured.

She blinked, and then her arms were wrapped around his neck, dragging him down with a surprised grunt.

The kiss was inexpert, more enthusiastic than practised, something he figured he could blame on the drinks. It was really nothing like Draco's, whose art of seduction was so fine-tuned that he could get Harry ridiculously hard with little more than brushing their lips together. Still, Harry wasn't at all surprised to find that he liked it.

Groaning, he pressed back into her, deepening the kiss easily. He braced his hands against the bed to keep their bodies apart; no matter what happened, he did not _dare_ do anything more than a kiss while she was in this state.

After a minute, he forced himself to pull away. She made a whining noise in her throat, and he almost gave in again.

Finding some reserve of strength, he pushed himself up, forcing her arms to let go of his neck. "I don't think it's a good idea to do this while you're drunk, Hermione," he said, swallowing hard.

"I'm not drunk," she insisted, but the fact that it took her three tries to get up on her elbows indicated rather strongly otherwise. "I want to."

"I know. And so do I." God, did he ever. Jesus fucking Christ. "But why don't you get some sleep, okay? And we'll do whatever you want to, tomorrow. Anything you want," he added when she pouted. "I'll be completely at your disposal."

She sighed, flopping back onto the bed. "Okay," she said, still frowning.

Harry straightened before he did something _stupid_ like try to kiss the frown off her face. "I'll see you tomorrow, alright?" When she nodded, her eyelids already starting to droop, he tucked the blankets around her chin and slipped out.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

She nearly threw her alarm clock at the wall when it went off the next morning. Groaning, Hermione tried to bury herself more aggressively beneath her pillows, but the piercing noise seemed to stab at her brain even _with_ the extra layers. Finally, she flailed an arm out and managed to slap the snooze button.

She really didn't want to go to work.

"Oh, God," she muttered, making a face at the taste in her mouth. She'd neglected to brush her teeth the night before. It was that, more than anything, that forced her out of bed and into the bathroom.

Hermione flinched at her reflection. She was wearing last night's clothes, her hair was an _actual bird's nest_ , and her make-up had been smudged across her face when she'd tossed and turned throughout the night. "Well, good morning, Miss Universe," she whispered, grabbing her toothbrush. Sometimes, in moments like these, she marvelled at the fact that _any_ bloke was interested in her, let alone _two_. Simultaneously.

After brushing her teeth, she took a shower, determined to make it to work no matter how much she wanted to crawl into her bed and sleep for the next forty years.

Since she did feel better afterwards, she got dressed, forced herself to eat a piece of toast despite the roiling warnings of her stomach, and staggered into the Floo with a traveller's mug of tea clutched to her chest.

When Harry popped by her cubicle at 8:30, her headache hadn't improved much. "Good morning!" he said, cheerfully, biting his lip to hide his smile when she shot him a nasty look. "Aw, does someone need some Pepper-Up? Poor Miss Granger, who can't even handle a couple of screwdrivers…"

"Those were _strong_ ," she defended, snippily, scowling when he laughed.

As his laughter died down, he said, "I'm picking you up for lunch. The _cafeteria_ , thirty minutes only," he promised, when she started to protest. "I have to make sure you don't starve to death. One hundred years from now, your skeleton will still be grasping at this stupid desk, refusing to clock out."

"You are not funny," she said, crisply. "Now shoo, before I throw my shoe at your head."

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Cafeteria food should have been better, in a magical world. It should have been like Hogwarts, really, with ever-flowing pumpkin juice, roast beef, seared potatoes… Instead, Ministry cafeteria food was _alarmingly_ like any other corporate cafeteria food, and Hermione wasn't sure that she'd ever be able to fully stop resenting this. "What _is_ this?" she demanded, poking at some orange-ish goo.

"Macaroni and cheese." Harry had no trouble whatsoever stuffing it into his face.

Hermione glared at the goop. "This isn't macaroni and cheese. This is some sort of gelatin coloured and shaped to vaguely resemble it. I miss Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts had house-elves," he reminded her. "Here, we're stuck with human cooks, remember? Something about how—ugh, I forget. Something like, what was it, they can't work here because their fealty has to be assigned to a specific person?"

"Fealty," she muttered, turning her tray to eat her salad, instead. "That's an awfully nice way of saying 'They have to have a clear, designated owner.'"

He spread his hands. "Either way. Given how quickly jobs get shifted out and around in this place, it didn't work. Ministers for Magic just kept _leaving_ with, like, twenty house-elves at their disposal, and then they had to find new ones. Easier to stick with the humans, I guess."

"Just one more reason to cut Lucius Malfoy down like a weed and get my proposal passed. Then they can work without _fealty_ ," she said, with grim promise. "Luckily, I've got Draco."

He grinned. "Luckily. Although I don't know how well you can rely on him. He doesn't really think he'll be of much help," he admitted, with a bit of a grimace. They'd had a bit of a row over it, actually, not that he thought it would be helpful for Hermione to know that. "He's kind of stepped away from the politics of his family and isn't too eager to try and get back in."

Hermione sighed, resting her chin in her palm. "I know," she said, softly. "And I hate to push him where he so obviously doesn't want to go. I just don't know that I've any other options."

"It'll be fine," he said, confidently. "You're the two smartest people I know. You'll figure it out."

She tried to keep the doubt off her expression. "I hope so."

After a long moment of poking at her food, she glanced up at him. He looked perfectly content. Clearing her throat delicately, she murmured, "Harry?" When he looked at her, eyebrows lifting, she felt a flush flood her cheeks. "I just wanted to… apologise… for last night. And say thank you, too. I don't know if I made things weird, or—I was drunk, and... I'm sorry."

The smile was slow to curl across his face. "I was wondering if you'd bring it up."

"Stop looking _smug_ or I will _leave_."

He swallowed a chuckle. "It's alright. And you didn't make things weird," he promised. When she continued to look uncertain, he insisted, "Really."

Hermione gnawed on her lower lip, but finally sighed in relief, smiling. "Thanks."


	5. Trading Dialogue for Lodging

**The Hedgehog's Dilemma**

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

**Chapter Five: Trading Dialogue For Lodging**

 

Ron’s excited expression faded as he delved into the paper bag. “Wait a minute,” he muttered, pulling the tupperware out. “This is the same chicken as  _ yesterday _ .”

 

Hermione sighed, shrugging. “I didn’t have time to cook. I went out with Harry and Draco.” He continued to stare at her, utterly  _ destroyed _ by the revelation of his lunch. After a moment, her eyes narrowed. “Unless you think George might be more appreciative?”

 

“No,” he refused promptly, clutching it to his chest. “No, I’ll eat it.”

 

“Thought so.”

 

As she turned to go, Ron stuffed the lunch back in the bag and said, “Wait. You went  _ out _ with Harry? And Draco? Is that why you’re bringing me this in the afternoon? I almost starved to death all morning, by the way—”

 

Wheeling back around, she glared at him. “You’re fine. And yes, I did.”

 

“So you decided, then.”

 

At a loss for what to say, Hermione pressed her lips together. Guilt was crawling up her spine by the time Ron registered her refusal to answer, his expression slowly morphing in horror with the realisation of what she  _ wasn’t _ saying. 

 

“Hermione!” he hissed, setting the bag down.

 

She grimaced. “I  _ know _ .”

 

“ _ Do _ you? Because that sounds like the actions of a girl who  _ doesn’t _ , but maybe that’s just me!” 

 

Her face scrunched. She wasn’t ready to face the ineptitude of her own actions, not just yet. “I can’t talk about this now,” she muttered. His eyes widened incredulously, and she hastened to explain, “No, I mean, I have to go back to work, my hour’s almost up.”

 

Ron’s eyes closed as he sighed. “You are going to  _ implode _ this beautiful friendship,” he grumbled. “Alright, go.” He raised his voice to call after her: “I’m off at six!”

 

She waved as she hurried out to indicate she’d heard.

 

“You’d better come back here and pick me up! I’m not done with you!” The door’s bell  _ dinged _ as it closed again, and he shot it a baleful glare. “I don’t know how I got saddled with this much crazy in my life,” he muttered, scooping up his lunch so he could hide it before George found it and ate it. “I’m a  _ good person _ . I don’t  _ deserve _ this.”

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

Ron looked grimly satisfied when she showed up at six, her shoulders hunched against the weight of his judgement. He grabbed his coat and turned to yell up the stairs, “George, I’m leaving.”

 

“Alright!” George shouted back, and then there was a small explosion that filled the upper level with smoke.

 

Hermione stared up the stairs. “Is he alright—?”

 

“He’s fine,” Ron assured her, looking entirely uninterested in the billowing smoke as he wheeled her around and shoved her towards the door. “So where are you taking me? … What?” he demanded when she scowled at him. “ _ You’re _ the one making that big fancy Ministry salary.”

 

“Big and fancy, my arse—” Her protest was swallowed up by the noise of the street as he herded her out of the shop. 

 

After some deliberating, she ended up at the sandwich shop again, if only because it was close and  _ cheap _ . They avoided discussing the elephant in the room as they ordered. Hermione got her customary turkey and swiss, and Ron got a sandwich so ridiculous that the poor sandwich girl needed two papers to wrap it up.

 

As soon as they sat, he unwrapped it with a pleased sigh. 

 

_ How _ he was able to wrap his mouth around that monstrosity, she’d never know. Grimacing as she watched him, Hermione shook her head and unwrapped her own sandwich. “What do you do, unhinge your jaw like a  _ snake _ ?”

 

“Hey,” he said, through a mouthful of food. “We’re not here to talk about me and how I eat. We’re here to talk about  _ you _ and  _ your _ bad choices.”

 

She took a big bite of her sandwich, if only for an excuse not to answer. 

 

Unfortunately, Ron was patient. As soon as she’d swallowed, his eyebrows rose, and he just looked at her expectantly. “Well?”

 

“I just wanted to… see how it went.” Her voice was quiet, and red was slowly crawling up her face.

 

“ _ See how it _ — Cor, Hermione. The bloke said he’s been in love with you for  _ years _ , so you go  _ out _ with him, and you’re  _ not even sure if _ —” He cut himself off, squeezing his eyes shut against the turmoil he  _ knew _ was in his future. “You can’t raise his hopes up and then just dash them if you realise it’s not working.”

 

She huffed, growing irritated. “He  _ knows _ I’m not fully on board,” she defended. “Besides, he’s an adult, too, you know. Why does it fall to me to  _ protect _ him?”

 

“Because that’s what you  _ do _ , Hermione!” She fell silent, and Ron heaved a sigh. When he spoke again, it was quieter. “I didn’t mean for it to come out quite like that. What I meant was… Harry really trusts you, and he’s trusting you with a lot right now  _ because _ you’ve never hurt him, before. Surely you understand  _ that _ .”

 

Frustrated, she set her sandwich down. She didn’t really have much of an appetite. “How am I supposed to figure out if this situation can work unless I try?” she finally asked, flatly.

 

He hesitated, wincing a bit. “Well, I didn’t say I had  _ all _ the answers.”

 

“You have  _ none _ , just like me,” she accused. “Look, I’m not trying to hurt anybody, but… this  _ may _ work, and he wants me to try, and if I don’t  _ try _ , I mean… Look, I’ve been honest. He knows I’m not fully sold. That’s why we went out; he wants to convince me.”

 

Ron nodded, although he still looked troubled. “I just hope you three know what you’re doing. This could get  _ really _ messy.”

 

“I know,” she whispered. “I know. And I think he knows. And Draco  _ must _ know.”

 

He heaved another sigh. “I don’t want to end up like that kid with divorced parents, having Christmas at your house and then Christmas at Harry’s,” he finally said, grumbling. “None of that joint custody nonsense. Every other weekend at alternating houses. Ugh.”

 

Despite herself, she began to laugh. “We wouldn’t do that to you.”

 

“Good, because I’ll cut you  _ both _ loose and fly by my  _ own _ wings,” he threatened, pointing at her. When she wouldn’t stop giggling, he smeared some mustard on his finger and bopped her on the nose with it. She shrieked, recoiling. “I mean it.”

 

“Oh, you  _ prat _ !” Scrubbing her face with a napkin, she scooted her chair back to avoid another mustard splotch. “Stop it!”

 

His eyes zeroed in on her head. “I’m going to stick it in your ear.”

 

She screamed and bolted out of her seat, dodging around a few of the tables. “You are making a  _ scene _ ,” she yelped, weaving around an elderly couple as he chased her. Finally, he stopped, meandering back to his table and licking his finger clean with a smirk. Hermione waited a beat to ensure that he was  _ really _ done before following. “You are so ridiculous. Like a child. If we did divorce, I’d give Harry full custody in a  _ heartbeat _ .”

 

“You would  _ shrivel up and die _ without me. Like a salted slug,” he assured her, smugly.

 

Hermione was still chuckling by the time they finished their sandwiches and left the shop. He dropped her off at her place before heading home, and she set about feeding Crookshanks, who was yowling  _ bloody murder _ about his dinner being an hour late. It wasn’t until after she’d fed him and was faced with the yawning emptiness of her own flat that the worry came hurrying back, gnawing on the inside of her ribs like a starved rat.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

The next few days passed peacefully since Harry was out of the office and in the field. She ate lunch every day, though, paranoid that he’d somehow find out if she didn’t. Halfweather seemed to stop by right around lunchtime, and although she couldn’t  _ prove _ that he was spying on her for Harry, her suspicions chased her out of her own cubicle around noon anyway.

 

It was seven in the evening on Friday, and she was still working. The weekend looked boring, anyway; Ginny was going to drag her to one of Pansy’s  _ fashion things _ .

 

“You’re still here?”

 

Hermione jumped so hard that her chair nearly skidded out from beneath her. Swallowing a rather unattractive squeal, she twisted around to gape at Draco. “Malfoy,” she stammered when she was able to form syllables at  _ all _ . “What are you  _ doing _ here?”

 

Draco pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and glanced at it. “Potter’s still out on a job and will probably be gone until late. He told me to make sure you went home.”

 

Incredulous, she gaped at him. “Don’t you have better things to do with your time?”

 

“That’s what  _ I _ said. But he apparently disagrees.”

 

She glanced at the pile of paperwork she’d been working through. “Well, I have a lot to do, actually. I was hoping to get a jump on Monday,” she explained, turning back to her desk. “Just tell Harry I wasn’t here.”

 

“Absolutely not,” he muttered. When she twisted around to squint at him, he clarified, “He’s an  _ Auror _ , Granger. He can smell lies.”

 

She rolled her eyes. “He can  _ not _ . Look, I’m not leaving, yet. I told you, I have a lot to do.”

 

He inhaled, looking around her cubicle. A tiny chair sat beside her desk for the rare occasion that she had a visitor. “Alright,” he agreed, in an amiable tone that put her on high alert  _ immediately.  _ “I’ll just keep you company, then.” With that decided, he folded himself into the tiny chair, crossing his ankle over his knee and leaning an elbow on her desk. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he couched his chin in his palm and stared at her.

 

Hermione blinked at him, her mouth parted as she struggled to compute this. “What… No. No, go away.”

 

Pursing his lips a bit, he shook his head, still staring at her.

 

Setting her jaw, she turned stubbornly back to her work. If he was just going to sit there and stare, well, she could deal with that  _ just fine _ . Ignoring him as thoroughly as she could, she started marking up her paper with red ink again, hunting out errors or badly-formed phrases. 

 

She made it three minutes before she caved to the urge to glance at him. He was still staring at her, his face perfectly deadpan.

 

Grinding her teeth together, Hermione grit out, “Will you stop?”

 

“What?”

 

“You  _ know _ what.”

 

His eyebrows rose, his expression one of perfect childlike innocence. “I’m afraid I’ve  _ no _ idea, Granger. I simply find you  _ fascinating _ while you’re working. Your focus is admirable.”

 

She was going to kill Harry.

 

Firming her jaw, she went back to work. Ten minutes passed, and Hermione was  _ just _ starting to forget about the evil little gremlin at the end of her desk when—

 

_ Piff _ . 

 

Straightening, she stared at him, and then slowly reached up towards the side of her head. A tiny aeroplane had been flown into her curls and stuck where it landed. As she pulled it free, she stared at it for a long moment before transferring her gaze to him, eyebrows drawing together. Draco smiled merrily at her, folding a second aeroplane out of a small scrap of parchment. 

 

While she was still stunned, he threw that one at her head, too. She flinched a bit as it bounced off of her forehead. “What. Are you doing?” she finally managed, flatly.

 

“I’m bored.”

 

Her eyes widened. “ _ So _ ?”

 

Draco shrugged. “So, I’m entertaining myself.” He picked up another scrap of parchment, and she snatched it out of his hands. A faint smirk touched his lips as he let her take it, satisfied that he’d broken her concentration again. 

 

“You are a brat,” she snapped, and carefully transferred  _ all _ parchment to the farthest side of the desk from him. He did nothing to stop her, watching her movements with lazy curiosity.

 

Once all the paper had been moved, she huffed and settled back down to editing.

 

Then the tapping started. 

 

Hermione sucked her lips between her teeth, pressing down on them to keep from screaming. He was drumming his fingers against the desktop. After a moment, he started humming, too. She closed her eyes, willing herself to ignore him.

 

Except that was impossible. Because he was  _ maddening _ . 

 

“Will you  _ please _ ?” she exploded, slamming her hand on the desk. He fell blissfully silent, regarding her with a nonchalant, cat-like blink. “What do I have to do to get you out of my cubicle and  _ back home _ ?”

 

“You would need to get up with me and also go home,” he said, evenly. 

 

Her nostrils flared with fury, but she rolled her eyes and started gathering her papers. She could easily do this from her kitchen table. She froze when his arm shot out, flattening her parchments back against the desk. “These stay here.”

 

“No.” She tugged on them.

 

Draco didn’t lift his arm. “Work stays at work,” he repeated, slowly. “Potter was  _ very _ clear on the rules. Unfortunately, I am tasked with enforcing said rules. I can’t  _ afford _ not to.”

 

_ Afford _ . The way he said that word hit her like lightning, and she raised her head to glare at him. He sounded just like those slimeballs scattered throughout the Ministry who were able to make things happen for anyone, provided the bribe was good enough. 

 

“Oh, really,” she seethed, and Draco smiled benignly. She growled in her throat. Fine. She could play his game. “I’ll give you five Galleons to turn a blind eye to these papers.”

 

“Granger,” he scoffed. “I  _ have _ money.”

 

Her mouth went dry as her eyes narrowed. “What do you want, then?”

 

His smile widened, and he slowly lifted his hand back to his face and tapped his lips with his index finger. Her jaw dropped, and she started to gather her parchments again. His hand dropped on top of them like a lead weight. “Ah, ah.”

 

Hermione glowered at him, and his one eyebrow lifted a bit, just barely perceptible. “Alright. Say I agreed.  _ One _ kiss, and you’d let me take my papers home without causing me any more trouble?”

 

“One  _ good _ kiss. Like you mean it.” 

 

“Like I mean  _ what _ ?”

 

He leant forward. “Like you’re  _ madly _ in love with me.” At her wide-eyed stare, he added, “You can close your eyes and imagine someone else, if that helps. And if you do that, your papers go home with you completely unaccosted, and Potter doesn’t hear a  _ word _ about you working late today.”

 

She swallowed. She was well aware of what was going on; this test had nothing to do with the papers, and she damn well knew it. Because they  _ both _ knew that if there was no part of her that wanted to kiss him, she’d pull a wand on him and hex him into next Thursday for even  _ suggesting _ such a filthy bribe. Of course, just looking at him, it was easy enough to consider kissing him. Draco Malfoy was not, by  _ any _ stretch of the imagination, an ugly man.

 

Releasing her papers, she inclined her head. He remained leaning forward, waiting.

 

Slowly, Hermione scooted her chair closer, feeling her cheeks heat a bit as she closed the distance between them. His gaze remained unwaveringly on hers as she leant towards him, her lips parting.  _ Like you mean it _ . 

 

Gingerly, she brushed her lips against his. The Draco that had kissed her within an inch of her life at Grimmauld Place days prior was apparently dormant because he didn’t move so much as a millimetre as she pressed forward. His lips parted at her coaxing, and she deepened the kiss a little, her eyelids fluttering shut. 

 

She startled a bit when his hand landed on hers, which was resting on her knee. He didn’t break the kiss as he pulled it up, pressing her palm against the side of his neck.

 

Well, she could take a hint.

 

Tilting her head the other way a bit, Hermione smoothed her hand up the side of his neck towards his jaw, fascinated by the sandpapery quality of the skin, there. For some reason, she’d never imagined Draco as the sort of man to have  _ stubble _ or a need to  _ shave _ . She wasn’t sure why. It stood to reason that he probably shaved. 

 

She realised that his hand was between her knees, gripping the seat of her chair and slowly pulling it towards him to close the gap even further. As soon as she came to the realisation, she felt her knees bump into his legs. 

 

Then Draco’s hand curled around her knee, his touch hot as a furnace, and she gasped and jolted back a bit. Her senses returned in a rush, like getting doused with a bucket of ice water.

 

His eyes had been closed, and they opened slowly as she scooted her chair back, flustered by their proximity. His hands fell away from her as she put more space between them, her face bright red. Then, he smiled, and gathered up her parchments as he stood. “Let’s go.”

 

Shocked, she just stared at him as he meandered out of the cubicle, looking as unruffled as ever.

 

After a moment of listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway, she jumped to her feet and snatched her coat and scarf off the coat hook, jogging after him. Her parchments were still tucked under his arm as he reached the lifts. After hitting the call button, Draco turned to look at her, taking in her flushed face with something resembling satisfaction. 

 

“I can hold those,” Hermione offered, after boarding the lift.

 

“It’s fine,” he assured her, calmly. 

 

She fell silent as they left the lift and walked to the Floos. He did nothing to try and ease the silence, either perfectly at home in it or just enjoying watching her squirm. As soon as they were in front of a fireplace, he turned towards her and held the papers out.

 

As Hermione gathered them to her chest, he said, “Don’t drop those.”

 

Squinting, she looked up at him. “Why would I—?”

 

The rest of her question went unasked as he grabbed her, pulling her flush against him, and kissed her.  _ This _ was the kiss she remembered from Grimmauld Place; that searing feeling like he was burning his  _ brand _ into her. She had no idea how long it lasted, but her mind was a frazzled mess when he released her, tweaking her chin with his thumb and forefinger. 

 

“Good night,” he said, cordially, as though he hadn’t just snogged the absolute  _ life _ out of her. Then, in a burst of green flames, he was gone.

 

Hermione stared at the Floo for a long second, trying desperately to rally her thoughts. 

 

“Good night,” she returned, dumbly, to the empty room.

 

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Ginny was bouncing from foot to foot. “Can you believe we get to go  _ backstage _ ?” she demanded, her voice so shrill that she almost gave Hermione a run for her money. Her eyes were lit up with excitement as she craned her neck to view as much of the area as humanly possible. 

 

Finally, the guard returned, having confirmed their access, and nodded at them to head in. Ginny swallowed a squeal as she skipped inside.

 

Hermione winced at the noise and shared a commiserating sort of look with the security guard before entering.

 

She wasn’t really prepared for the unadulterated  _ chaos _ that awaited her.

 

People were  _ running _ back and forth in various states of undress, most of them sprinting around rather gracefully in heels that Hermione wouldn’t have dared put on for a million Galleons. Wide-eyed, she tried to stay out of everyone’s way as she caught sight of Ginny’s hair about twenty feet ahead, striding through the bedlam like she owned it. 

 

Wincing as she bumped into someone, Hermione muttered, “Sorry! Sorry.” The person shot her a caustic look as he righted his cup of coffee before it spilt, stalking off.

 

She only caught up to Ginny when the redhead  _ finally _ came to a stop, having found Pansy.

 

The Slytherin girl’s face lit up when she saw Hermione. “Pascal! Pascal,  _ this _ is the girl I was telling you about,” she said, enthusiastically waving Hermione closer. “I swear, you’ve never seen anything like it.”

 

Cautious, Hermione slowed on her approach, eyes flickering nervously between Pansy and the slim, short man draped across the couch. He was wearing leopard-print pants that clung to his legs like a second skin and a leather vest on top of a mesh shirt. When he saw her, his lips parted and he sprang to his feet, propping his hands against his hips. “Well, well,” he murmured, his eyes flicking over her—from the chaotic pile of curls to the ratty jeans and hiking boots. They lingered on her t-shirt-and-flannel-overshirt combination with open fascination. “Oh, this is something. Slap me upside the  _ head _ for doubting you, Pansy.”

 

Hermione frowned. “What is going on?” she finally asked, suspiciously. She shied back a bit when Pascal approached and reached for her head.

 

“How do you get it like this?” he demanded, grabbing a few strands of her hair.

 

Gaping at him— the  _ gall _ of the man, to just  _ touch her hair like that _ —Hermione took a measured step back until her hair fell out of his hands. “I don’t. It’s just like that,” she said, a bit sharply. He smoothed his fingers over her flannel-covered arm, and she jerked it away, scowling. “Can I  _ help you _ ?”

 

“Relax, Hermione,” Ginny laughed. “He’s a bit touchy, but he’s a  _ genius _ when it comes to fashion. Be nice, and a new wardrobe might be in it for you.” Her eyebrows bounced seductively.

 

“My wardrobe is fine,” Hermione snapped, twisting around to watch the little man closely as he circled her. Besides, she sure as hell wasn’t interested in a new wardrobe from the same group of people who’d designed all of Ginny’s current outfits. He was eyeballing her boots and finally dropped onto his haunches to examine them more closely. “Okay,  _ what _ is he doing?”

 

“I couldn’t stop talking about you, Granger,” Pansy admitted, stepping closer to smile fondly at Pascal. “You take your lack of awareness for fashion to an almost  _ artistic _ level. It’s avant-garde. And that’s  _ huge _ right now.”

 

Pascal peeled her jeans up. “White socks?” he asked, trying to peer down the tops of her boots.

 

“What—?” Hermione kicked her leg free of him, transferring her glare equally between all three of them. “I’m not  _ unaware _ of fashion. This is what  _ normal _ people wear.”

 

Pansy held up a hand to silence her. “No normal person wears plaid with a graphic tee. And yes, I’m  _ including _ Muggles in that assessment,” she added, before Hermione could argue. Her perfectly manicured eyebrows lifted imperiously as her eyes flicked down Hermione’s form. Her eyeliner was also perfect.  _ Damn _ her. “Look, Pascal is looking for the next big look in the fall line next year, and you might be a contender. We can call it  _ Bookworm Chic _ .”

 

Jumping back to his feet, Pascal clapped his hands together. “Oh, she’s  _ so real _ , Pansy,” he said, looking delighted. “Her legs aren’t even shaved.”

 

Ginny wrinkled her nose. “Really, Hermione?”

 

“It’s  _ winter _ ,” Hermione defended, hotly. “Look, what I do with my legs is  _ not _ your business.  _ Stop touching my hair _ ,” she bit out when Pascal tried to collect it into a messy ponytail. “Is this why you insisted I come to this circus?”

 

Rolling her eyes, Pansy grabbed her elbow to steer her towards the couches. “Look, all we’re looking for is a potential  _ muse _ . I think Pascal could take this look and make it  _ iconic _ .”

 

“It’s not a  _ look _ ; it’s just my clothes.” She was steered into the couch and sat, glowering at the lot of them.

 

Pascal smiled. “I could make it worth your while,” he offered. At her incredulous look, he flicked his hand dismissively. “I work with you types all the time. Don’t care about fashion, think it’s a silly waste of time. It’s okay.  _ My _ feelings aren’t hurt; I’m absolutely dead inside—” He punctuated the comment with a sharp bark of laughter. “—But I can pay you for the opportunity to let me see you in all of your little outfits.”

 

Her forehead creased. She wasn’t sure if she believed this. “You’d  _ pay _ me to wear my own clothes,” she repeated, flatly.

 

“By the hour. Me and some of my artists drop by your house, or Pansy’s if that makes you more comfortable, and you put on your clothes and just stand there while we get an impression,” he explained. When she hesitated, he said, “Ten Galleons an hour.”

 

Her eyes nearly exploded out of her head. “ _ What _ —?”

 

“Fifteen?” he bartered, mistaking her reaction entirely. “Believe me, that’s fair. Fifteen Galleons an hour, and it won’t take more than a few hours for us to finish up the sketches. Forty-five Galleons for a single afternoon isn’t a bad deal, honey.”

 

“And I get to sit in with you guys,” Ginny bargained. Hermione stared at her, and she shrugged, grinning. 

 

Pascal shot her a sly smirk. “Sneaky boots,” he accused, chortling. “What do you say, honey?”

 

Hermione glanced between Pansy (smugly confident in Hermione’s answer) and Ginny (hands clasped together in front of her face, silently  _ begging _ ). Finally, her eyes landed on Pascal, with his bright eyes. The man practically vibrated with boundless energy. 

 

Forty-five Galleons for one afternoon? She couldn’t lie to herself; it was a  _ little _ tempting. 

 

Still sensing some resistance, Pascal added, “And if it goes well, we might be interested in seeing what you do for spring and summer, too. This could be a recurring thing, sweetie.”

 

She gnawed on the inside of her cheek. “Okay.”

 

Ginny  _ screamed _ with ecstasy, throwing her hands up and dancing around the small seating area. Pansy’s smirk just widened; she’d predicted the outcome from the start. “Come to my place,” she invited Hermione. “Bring everything you wore the past few weekends, whole outfits. Tomorrow at one?” She didn’t wait for Hermione to agree before she drawled, “Fantastic. It’s a date.”


	6. How To Write A Chinese Poem

**The Hedgehog's Dilemma**

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**Chapter Six: How To Write A Chinese Poem**

"I can't go," Hermione muttered, picking at some invisible lint on her sleeve.

Harry's eyebrows rose incredulously. "Why? What are you doing?" he asked, curiously. Draco had formally extended an invitation for her to have _brunch_ with them, a practice which had previously been closed to anyone that was _not_ Draco or Harry.

She fidgeted a bit, unsure of how to say this in a way that didn't sound _really, really_ embarrassing. "Well, Pansy has this… designer friend. And he's going to… come and see me in my… outfits," she said, slowly, picking through her words. As they came out, though, her face scrunched in quiet mortification. She had not picked through them very well.

He blinked rapidly a few times and then cleared his throat, certain he'd heard her wrong. "Ah, come again?"

Her cheeks flooded with heat as she scowled, standing from his kitchen table to stalk towards the fridge. Really, she just needed _any_ excuse to not be looking at him. "He thinks he can turn how I dress into the new, uh, _thing_ ," she muttered, so softly he had to lean towards her to hear. "He set up a time with me tomorrow to stand in what I usually wear and have his artists sketch impressions. Or something. I don't profess to understand— _stop laughing_ —but he's paying me fifteen Galleons an hour to do it."

" _Wow_. To wear the things you're wearing now? _That_?" he demanded, pointing at her flannel shirt and worn jeans.

Hermione glowered at him, slamming the fridge door shut without actually getting anything. "And what's so crazy about that, then?" she challenged, turning to narrow her eyes at him. "Is there something awfully funny about what I'm wearing?"

Harry sobered in an instant, scooting his chair back a bit and glancing down at her hands to make sure a wand wasn't in either of them. "Nope. No. Of course not."

She glared at him for a few seconds more, but his poker face didn't flicker for an _instant_.

When she turned back to the fridge, though, she _thought_ she heard a very quiet, very muffled snort. Whirling back around, she found him with his elbow on the table and his palm pressed against his mouth, eyes widened innocently. It was impossible to tell if he was smiling beneath his hand.

"Watch yourself, Harry," she cautioned, pulling the fridge door open again and fishing out the apple juice.

He cleared his throat a few more times before he trusted himself to speak with an even tone. "I currently consider myself _extremely_ self-watched," he said, gravely. When she turned away to grab a glass from the cupboard, though, a grin broke out on his face. He only just barely managed to stow it away before she finished pouring her juice and turned back around. "Anyway, what time are you going over there? Draco may pout, but I can probably move the time up a bit."

"One." She sat back at the table, cradling the glass between her hands. "I'd need to be able to be home by noon so I can grab my clothes and take them to Pansy's."

Draco swept into the kitchen, reaching over her head to pluck her glass out of her hands. Ignoring her enraged squeal, he asked, "Why are you going to Pansy's?" and drained the glass in one go. Settling in at the counter, he exhaled happily as he finished swallowing, setting the empty glass down.

Her glare could have normally set a man on fire, but Draco was as difficult to ruffle as ever. "I'm being sketched by one of her weird fashion friends."

He snorted. " _You_?"

"Yes," she snapped, bristling. Harry attempted to keep his amusement under wraps for a second time—and utterly failed—muffling his laughter into his hand as she shot him a betrayed look. "So _what_? He's paying me, and it's not like I was doing anything _else_ tomorrow."

"Except going to brunch with us," Harry corrected her, then turned to his boyfriend. "We have to go at nine."

" _What_?" Draco demanded. "What kind of _miserable animal_ eats _Sunday brunch_ before eleven?"

Harry gestured at her. "She has to be home by noon to get ready for her fashion montage," he said, purposefully refusing to look at her as her glare snapped around and zeroed in on his face. "She's going to be this year's It Girl. So, really, this whole thing is very well timed. I know how fashionable you like to be."

Pouring himself some more juice, Draco sneered. "I'll have to wake up at _seven_ on a _weekend_."

"I don't _have_ to go," Hermione pointed out. "It's just brunch. Who cares?"

"You'll go," Draco decided, flatly. "And you'll wear something _nice_. We'll go at _ten_. She'll be home in time." Having filled the glass with more apple juice, he took a sip of it and then walked it to the table, setting it in front of her.

Now that he knew she was willing to drink from the same glass as him, he seemed to get a perverse sort of pleasure in watching her do it.

Rolling her eyes a bit, she took a sip, pretending not to notice the way his eyes didn't leave her while she did. Then he smirked, as though he'd achieved some sort of _victory_ in that moment. Really, trying to understand Draco's motivations and thought processes was enough to make a sane person go absolutely mad. Nothing the bloke did made a lick of sense.

Hermione sighed, trying to go through a mental list of her wardrobe to see if she had something nice that was also brunch-y. She had nice clothes, but a lot of them were a better fit for evening wear than daytime. "Fine. Ten," she agreed. "But I'd _better_ be home by noon, Draco."

"I'll be _sure_ to deliver you home before the clock strikes twelve. You'll have ample time to turn back into a pumpkin, Granger," he promised, caustically. "Don't you worry."

"Letting you watch that film was a mistake," Harry murmured, shaking his head a bit. "Anyway, Hermione, are you going to stick around tonight for a bit? We weren't going to do anything too crazy, just watch a film."

She shook her head. "I shouldn't, I need to do laundry—"

"It's _Ever After_ ," he interrupted, and Hermione sucked in a breath, reconsidering.

After a second, she narrowed her eyes at him. Harry knew _damn well_ that was one of her favourite films. "Your Slytherin is showing," she huffed, and his grin widened when he realised that he'd won. "I bet if I asked Draco, he'd tell me that you were planning to watch a different film entirely."

"Even if it were true, which I'm not saying it is, Draco's not that stupid, luv," Harry assured her. "And he's also a well-known liar."

"I resent that remark," Draco drawled, from the counter.

Hermione sighed, gustily. " _Just_ a film," she warned. "No drinks after, and no board games. I _really_ need to do laundry this weekend, Harry."

Draco shifted from the counter to open the fridge, his voice a low mutter. "Well, isn't _someone's_ life a whirlwind of action and intrigue." Hermione twisted around to shoot him a tired glare, but he was steadfastly ignoring her as he considered his drink options.

"I'll get the popcorn going," Harry said loudly, before they could start bickering.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

She waited for them to sit _first_. She wasn't sure what might happen if she let them sandwich her in, and frankly, she was a little worried about finding out. Instead, she plopped down on Harry's other side, leaning against him in the overly-familiar way that she'd become accustomed to over the years.

When she tugged the throw-blanket down to wrap it around herself, Draco snorted. Bristling again, Hermione demanded, " _What_?"

"Why are women always so cold?" he asked.

Huffing, she tugged the blanket tighter, settling in without any intention of reacting to his stupid questions. When he realised she wasn't going to respond, he snickered quietly and grabbed a few pieces of popcorn from the bowl in Harry's lap.

As the film began, Harry shifted, and Hermione leant forward at his urging so he could loop his arm around her. She was so enraptured by the film that she missed the popcorn bowl several times, feeling around in the air before Draco—irritated—grabbed her wrist and shoved it into the bowl. The film was _so good_ that she didn't even tell him off for being a grouch.

Of course, she sniffled tellingly at the beginning when the father died. She laughed and bounced giddily every time Prince Henry did something charming or Leonarda da Vinci was even remotely funny.

It didn't matter that she'd seen this film more times than she could reasonably attempt to count: When Prince Henry angrily told Danielle off at the party, she was a _wreck_ , her chin wobbling dangerously as she tried to suck back the tears by pure force of will. After listening to her sniff for upwards of a minute, Draco growled and shoved a box of tissues into her face.

As she cleared her nose, Draco rolled his eyes. "It's not _that_ sad."

"Shut up," she said, muffled and all stuffed up.

"You won't cry when you get a broken arm, but you'll cry because some character in a _film_ got yelled at for lying," he muttered, wrestling with disbelief.

Hermione sucked in a breath. "She _had to lie_ to save her _friend_!"

" _That's_ not the part of my sentence you should be focusing on," he returned, leaning forward to shoot her a proper sneer.

Harry groaned. " _Both_ of you, shut up. It's not over."

They both settled back against him, Draco muttering something vaguely insulting under his breath as Hermione continued to sniffle into the tissues. Harry's arm slid up her back, and he pressed his hand against the side of her head, urging her to rest it against his shoulder. When she did, lifting her legs up to curl them beneath herself, he stroked her hair back from her face.

She wasn't going to lie to herself. It felt really nice.

At the ending, Draco leant forward again to pin Hermione with an incredulous stare. " _Why_ are you crying, _now_?" he exclaimed, gesturing at her puffy red eyes. "He went to rescue her!"

"Because they love each other!" she warbled, defensively.

Draco transferred his slack-jawed stare to Harry. "That's absolutely insane," he whispered. "Sad endings, happy endings, she'll just cry at anything as long as it's in cinematic form, won't she?"

Stifling a smile, Harry shrugged. "She gets very easily invested in the trials and tribulations of film characters," he said, evenly, and Draco made a disgusted noise at the fondness in Harry's tone. "Besides, lots of people cry at happy endings. They're so happy, it overloads their… glands, or something… I don't remember. Hermione explained it, once."

"Oh, well that's _convenient,_ that she has some sort of complicated explanation for her hysterics."

Finally clearing her nose, Hermione crumpled up the tissue. "Oh, shut _up,_ Draco. You're so heartless. You're a _golem_ whose only orders are to be snarky and unpleasant at all times." She rubbed her nose with her fingers, wincing a bit. It was tender from the half hour of pure abuse it had just suffered. "I probably look like Rudolph, right now."

Harry glanced at her, his smile briefly widening. Then he leant in—it wasn't far, given that her head was still on his shoulder—and pressed his lips against the bridge of her nose in a soft kiss. "I think it's cute."

"Merlin help me," Draco muttered, making a fake-sounding gagging noise and standing. He collected the popcorn bowl and headed into the kitchen.

Giggling a bit, Hermione straightened and wiped her nose. "Well, aren't you easy to please."

He stared at her for a beat, sobering.

The next thing she knew, he'd leant in again, his hand cupping the side of her face to keep her in place as he kissed her. This wasn't like before, where he'd given her ample time to shift away or avoid it.

And it wasn't like before, where she wasn't entirely sure if she wanted it or not.

Inhaling sharply through her nose, she barely registered the half-second of hesitation before she was kissing him back. Shifting more towards her side to better face him, Hermione forcefully ignored the uncertain thoughts clamouring for attention at the back of her mind. She could deal with her doubts later, after all. _Way_ later. Like, _a year_ later.

Harry's hand curled around her knee and smoothed up the outside of her thigh, and for a second the kiss broke as she startled. He froze, and for a moment they just looked at each other.

"Okay?" he whispered.

Hermione swallowed, feeling her cheeks heat a bit as she looked down at his hand on her leg. It was so much larger than she remembered; square-palmed, blunt fingers. _Manly_. Where had the teenager gone? "Yeah. I mean, it's just… I keep imagining that it will be more awkward," she admitted, in a rush. "That you won't know where to put your hands, or… I just realised that I'm probably imagining you as a horny teenager more often than not. Oh, God."

"Won't know where to _put my hands_?" he huffed, incredulous. "Do you have any idea how many fantasy hours I've committed to this? I have no less than _forty_ battle plans for _precisely_ where my hands are going."

It felt like her face was on _fire_. "I have _no_ idea how many fantasy hours you've committed to this, actually," she spluttered.

His hand slid up her leg and hooked on the indent of her waist. He pulled her closer, and she found herself newly aware of the fact that he was _strong_. This wasn't the gangly teenager she always envisioned in her head when she thought _Harry_. This was an accomplished Auror with a _gym membership_ and a deep commitment to the acquisition of muscles.

"Think somewhere in the realm of three hundred thousand," he murmured, his eyes dipping to her lips. He would much rather go back to snogging.

Hermione snorted. "That's over _thirty years_ , Harry—"

"Oh, my God," he muttered, yanking her in and pressing his lips against her desperately just to _shut her up_. She tried to finish her sentence against his lips, but he stubbornly continued on, sticking his tongue into her mouth.

She had half a mind to _bite it_ and teach him a lesson, but she figured she could always finish her lecture on the virtues of accuracy later. Besides, pushing her tongue against his gave her the kind of thrill she hadn't felt in a couple of years.

A couple of _really long_ years.

His hand smoothed up her side, resting on her ribs for a moment. Then it slid back down, his fingers seeking the hem of her shirt. She shivered when they found it, his calloused fingers running over her skin with a soft sense of reverence.

"Mm," she protested, pulling back. "I have to do laundry."

"No," he pleaded, his voice a little ragged as he chased her, brushing his lips over hers. "Stay."

She let him snog her a bit more and then pulled back again, earning a wordless whine of protest. "Harry, I _can't_. If I don't do it tonight, I won't get a chance tomorrow, and—"

Harry chased her again, and she fell onto her back trying to lean away from him. He didn't waste the opportunity, pulling himself over her and kissing her a little more deeply than before. Sighing against his lips, she almost melted back against him before coming back to her senses and trying to push him up. "Harry."

"If you stay, I'll wake up early tomorrow and help you do it all," he promised, a hint desperately. "I'll do the folding and hanging and _everything_."

Laughing softly, she brushed some of his hair off his forehead. It flopped right back into place. "Harry."

He groaned in pure misery, collapsing on top of her and burying his face against her neck.

All the breath went out of her, and she wheezed on the inhale, slapping at his side. "Harry! You are _not_ light enough to get away with this!" she protested, gasping for breath. "You are _crushing_ me to _death_ , Harry Potter. Get off!"

His response was muffled, spoken directly into the couch. "No. I'm sad."

"You can _be sad_ upright!"

Harry shook his head a bit. "Nope. Sadness turns my limbs to lead. I can't move an inch." He was a ragdoll on top of her as she tried to get enough leverage to shove him off.

Hermione managed to get a foot braced against the couch and tried to shove her hips up. She was pretty sure she'd moved him a centimetre or so before her muscles gave right out on her. "How much do you _weigh_?" she demanded, trying to twist around beneath him so she could at least drag herself out from under him. She couldn't move _at all_.

"Fifteen stone."

"You are _not_ fifteen stone."

He raised his head. "Nearly!" he insisted. She rolled her eyes, and he flopped his head back down again.

God. She had no choice. " _Draco_!" she shouted, after unsuccessfully trying to poke him in the ribs. Harry wasn't ticklish at all, and he just continued to lie there like a corpse.

When Draco meandered in, he didn't look surprised at their position. He was holding a glass of red wine, half-full. "Was he overcome with emotions and passed out?" She could feel Harry's chest vibrate with a suppressed chuckle.

"No, he's just _annoying_. Get him off of me."

Draco squinted. "That sounds hard."

" _Draco_!"

He gestured at Harry's prone body. "I mean, he must weigh at least fifteen stone." He nudged the coffee table a bit away from the couch and sat down on the edge of it, his elbows resting on his knees as he regarded her. The glass of wine dangled from his fingers.

Hermione glared daggers at him. "I am going to rip your eyes right out of your head," she snarled, struggling against Harry's body again.

"Perhaps you can _hire_ someone. Moving something so heavy is usually paid labour."

She stared at the ceiling, her lips thinning. It barely even classed as a _hint_. She wondered just how much subtlety he was giving up for the sake of getting his point across to her. "Really? _Now_? You're demanding a bribe _now_. You _sleazy_ —"

"The price goes up with every insult you utter."

Clenching her jaw shut, Hermione fought back a scream. Was she _really_ considering signing up for _dealing with this_? "What. Do. You. Want?"

"Well," he murmured. "That's a complicated question."

She yelled her frustration at the ceiling, thrashing her limbs again with all of her might. Harry grunted as her heel caught his leg, but remained immobile. "I'm going to _kill you_!"

His smirk made her see red for a second. "An hour."

"What?" she hissed.

"Give us an hour," he enunciated. "With both of us. Clothes on. Kissing. Heavy petting." He took a leisurely sip of his wine. "Unless you want us to take something off, of course."

Seething, she tried to reach for the wine glass to knock it out of his hands. He lifted it nonchalantly to his lips again, easily avoiding her grasping fingers. "An hour is _forever_ for just snogging. I don't trust you. Fifteen minutes."

Draco rolled his eyes. "And they say women are romantic," he muttered to himself. "Fifteen minutes. Ridiculous. Believe me, Granger, when you're doing it _right_ , an hour's hardly enough."

"Half an hour," she ground out, her eyes flashing with sinister promise.

He considered it, then shrugged, downing his glass of wine in a single swoop before standing. He reached for the back of Harry's collar as though he were about to pull him up, but instead he carded his hands gently through his messy hair. "Half an hour. That's pretty good."

"The sadness is lifting," Harry announced, pushing up off of her. "And the lead is gone. Hooray!"

Hermione sucked in a greedy breath, coughing a bit with how explosive it felt. " _Arseholes_ ," she snapped. She aimed a punch for Harry's ribs, but he caught it, pulling her hand up to his mouth to kiss her knuckles. She snatched her hand away, again, scowling up at him.

When Harry sat back, she pushed herself upright, still breathing heavily. "Look, how do you even snog when there's _three_?"

Hesitating, Harry looked at Draco and shrugged. "I'm guessing it's somewhat turn-based."

And just like that, she was reminded of the fact that this was new for them, too. They'd been talking about it for months, Harry had said, but talking was a far cry from _doing_.

As Draco settled in on her other side, she rubbed her ribs a bit. "So, what do we do, figure out some kind of… rotation?" she asked, sceptically. "Set timers, or something? Actually, if we think of it like a circle, kind of like a clock, we can allot ten minutes each—"

Draco's arm snaked around her, settling over her chest and yanking her back against him. "I'll tell you what: Let's play it by ear," he suggested. His teeth settled on her earlobe, gently scraping.

Scooting towards them, Harry grinned. "That's a good idea."

" _Set a timer_ ," Hermione insisted before he kissed her. "I need to do my _laundry_.'

Harry sighed, but fished out his mobile and set an alarm. She couldn't see Draco's face, but she could _feel_ the waves of sarcastic incredulity rolling off of him. After setting the alarm, Harry showed her the screen. "Happy?" At her nod, he tossed his phone on the coffee table and crowded her, smashing his lips against hers.

The force of it shoved her back, and Draco rolled with the momentum of the movement, leaning against the arm of the couch, and allowing Hermione to be sandwiched between them.

He wasted little time before grabbing a handful of Hermione's arse, and she jolted and made a protesting noise.

"Hey, I _said_ heavy petting," he reminded her.

She twisted her head away from Harry's lips. "You are so—ahhh." Harry's mouth had landed on her throat, and he dug his teeth into the side of it a bit and sucked. "Gonna… make a mark," she breathed, her eyes closing.

Draco snorted. "Magic," he reminded her. His palm left her arse and settled on Harry's hand, which was flattened on her thigh.

Slowly, he dragged Harry's hand up to her chest. If he noticed the way she stiffened a bit, he didn't say anything, and probably for the best. It wasn't really _his_ hang-up to deal with, their long-standing platonic friendship. To her relief, Harry's hand on her breast didn't feel any more wrong than anyone else's, and the tension eased back out of her as he ran his fingers over the shape of it.

Suddenly, Draco huffed, leaning his head away from her. "Can we get her a hair-tie or something?"

"The timer doesn't stop if you leave to get a hair-tie," she said, quickly.

He growled low in his throat, and then carefully gathered all of her hair into his hand. She squeaked when his hand closed in a fist around it, yanking her head back to expose her throat more fully to Harry. Draco met her wide-eyed stare with his own half-lidded, lips curling subtly in amusement.

"Alright," he murmured. "I suppose I'll make do."

She gasped again when he used the fistful of her hair as a handlebar to face her more towards him, arching her back slightly. When he had her in position, he held her in place as he leant down, the tip of his tongue tracing the seam of her lips before he claimed them. A bolt of electricity shot down her spine and straight into her groin, or so she assumed, and she swallowed a moan.

Feeling his lips curve a bit at the strangled noise, she fought down the urge to remind him that she'd been celibate for _two years,_ and he was _not_ as great as he assumed.

The urge passed quickly, mostly because it was so damn hard to _think_ with Draco sucking the actual life out of her and Harry nibbling bruises into the side of her neck. She wasn't sure when it had happened, but Harry's hand was under her shirt, again, roving hungrily over the soft expanse of skin there.

When he reached the bottom of her bra, he hesitated. After a moment of consideration, he slid his hand up over it, apparently content enough with just the tops of her breasts.

Draco's free hand dipped over her, his fingertips skimming along the skin of her collarbone before transferring to Harry. A part of her wanted to lift her head and see what he was doing that made Harry groan against her neck, like that, but an experimental tug told her that she wasn't going _anywhere_ until Draco released her hair.

Harry was panting when he pulled off of her neck. Whatever Draco had done to him had him moving in short, jerky movements as he leant back and shoved the front of her shirt up. Whatever reserves of patience he'd managed to summon when she'd made the drunken pass at him earlier that week were _gone_ , and he made a strangled noise in his throat as he sank back down against her, his lips sucking the same angry marks into her cleavage.

Her hips bucked a bit at the sensation, and she moaned into Draco's mouth.

The fist holding her hair shifted, pulling her mouth away from his and craning her head to the side so he could run his teeth gently down the raised tendon of her neck. Goosebumps rose all over her body as she panted, shivering a bit as _three_ masculine hands combed carefully over the exposed skin of her belly.

When Draco's fingers dipped into the waistband of her jeans, she opened her mouth to protest, but the shrill cry of the alarm beat her to it.

Draco's slow tracing of her neck stilled, and Harry moaned desolately into her chest, unwilling to believe that thirty minutes had truly passed. Honestly, Hermione was hard-pressed to believe it, herself, but a glance at the clock confirmed it.

Her hair was pulled to the side, baring her ear to Draco. Huskily, he whispered, "I'll buy you new clothes."

Hermione swallowed, hard. "Nn… No," she gasped. "No, I have to do laundry."

Sighing raggedly, Harry straightened, still staring at her chest. Flushing, Hermione pulled her shirt back down, trying to sit up. She stopped when Draco didn't release her hair. "You can't be serious, Granger," he said, in disbelief. This had to be the first time in _all of history_ that he'd set out to seduce someone, gotten as far as snogging them, and then failed at the finish line.

"She is," Harry said, forlornly.

"I am," Hermione confirmed, reaching back to pry his fingers out of the fist. Dumbfounded, Draco let her, and just stared at her in open bewilderment as she sat up and straightened her clothes. "Look, we can't _all_ just set real life aside for random couch-trysts," she said, primly, standing and straightening her pants, as well. "I'm an adult, and I do laundry. I don't _buy new clothes_ when I've run out. That's nonsense."

Draco continued to just stare at her, for once too surprised to even muster a sneer or a sarcastic squint. Harry looked like a starving child who had just been shown the Hogwarts Start-Of-School banquet and then locked outside.

Putting her hands on her hips, she said, briskly, "You'll be fine. Tomorrow at, what? Nine?"

Since Draco was beyond the ability to form any sort of response, Harry sighed through his nose and ducked his chin in confirmation. "Nine's good."

Hermione nodded back, absently wiping her lips with the back of her wrist. "Alright. Good night." For a moment, she just stood there awkwardly. Then, she threw her hand up and offered a bit of a wave as she turned towards the fireplace.

As she stepped into the Floo, Draco's shocked silence came to an abrupt end: " _What just happened_?"


	7. No Attachment to Dust

**The Hedgehog's Dilemma**

 

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**Chapter Seven: No Attachment to Dust**

  


She had little time to dwell on how perfectly neurotic she was as she laid all of her outfits on the bed. Thanks to Harry and Draco, it was nearly _bedtime_ and she felt like she’d accomplished nothing all day.

 

Surveying the outfits, Hermione moved slowly towards the wardrobe to grab some hangers. She wasn’t sure that she could remember what she was wearing the last few weekends very clearly; the only outfits that stuck out in her mind were the ones that had garnered sighs and comments from Ginny or Draco. There were only six, and for a moment she fretted over the possibility that it wasn’t enough to fill the few hours; she had no _idea_ how long it took to sketch “impressions.”

 

After hanging up her outfits—each one collected together on the same hanger—she bundled the hangers together and brushed her teeth, determined not to waste any more time worrying about it.

 

It wasn’t until she fell into bed that she allowed herself to remember the snogging session from just a few hours prior. For an hour, she just laid there, sleep eluding her as she tossed and turned. Finally, she grumbled something uncomplimentary to herself and scooted towards the edge of the bed, fishing her vibrator out of the bottom drawer of her nightstand.

 

Stupid boys.

 

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The A-line dress she found buried in her wardrobe wasn’t actually hers; it was Ginny’s—B.P.E. (Before Pansy Era). Vaguely remembering something she’d seen in a magazine at some point, Hermione used one of her nice brown belts to cinch it in more at the waist. She didn’t have Ginny’s statuesque athleticism to fill the damned thing out. But, well, maybe the oversized-dress-plus-belt thing was “in,” right now.

 

Hell, everything she wore was about to be “in,” if Pascal was to be believed. So fuck it.

Hermione found herself glad of the chill weather as she pulled some leggings on underneath the dress. She didn’t wake up early enough to try and consider shaving her legs, and the depilatory charm Ginny had shown her once burned like the fires of hell.

 

As soon as she stepped out of the Floo, Draco scoffed, “No, no, no. You’re not going _anywhere_ with me in _that_ mess.” He was already pointing accusingly at her from where he was sat on the sofa. She wondered if he’d been _waiting_ for her to come in so he could harangue her about whatever she’d chosen to wear. He was likely still grumpy from having to wake up early.

 

Jaw dropping, she scowled at him. “Good morning to _you_ , too. What’s _wrong_ with it? It’s a dress.”

 

He threw a hand at her, gesturing up and down. “You’re wearing _trousers_ , and you had to make it fit with a _belt_ . And what is that jacket? Is that _denim_ ? _Potter_ , come down here and fix your woman before I have a bloody aneurysm!”

 

Unsurprisingly, Draco was decked out in a three-piece suit.

 

In a shocking twist, though, Harry appeared at the top of the stairs in a similar one. Hermione’s eyebrows shot up as he skipped down the stairs, his dimples flashing briefly as he took in the sight of her. “Fetching, as usual, luv,” he said, and Draco threw his hands up in pure fury as he turned and stalked up the stairs.

 

Hermione’s eyes tracked the seething blond as he disappeared. Then she looked at Harry, reaching out and hooking her fingers on one of the hundred buttons. “A waistcoat? What kind of brunch place _is_ this?”

 

Grabbing her hand, he tugged her close and planted a kiss on her—just a simple good-morning one, but she found herself surprised by his brand-new breezy confidence in regards to showing her romantic affection. “It’s one of those posh elitist clubs,” he murmured. “The kind that purebloods used to frequent. It’s opened up to anyone that can afford it, though, in recent years. I guess they haven’t been getting the revenue they used to get from the purebloods alone, lately.”

 

“Oh. Well, when you say brunch, I usually think of something else,” she muttered, a little flustered at the prospect of going into a place like that in what she was currently wearing (and to think she’d felt so _good_ about it when she put it on). “When he said _nice_ , I didn’t think…”

 

He nodded, shrugging. “I know. Don’t worry, he’ll find something.”

 

“ _Find_ something?” she repeated, alarmed.

 

At that moment, Draco reappeared at the top of the stairs with some blue _silk_ slung over his arm. He pointed at her. “You. Come up here and put this on. Daphne left it here when she was trying to figure out what to wear for her sister’s wedding. I think she’s about your size. She might be a bit taller, but I know some tailoring charms.”

 

Hermione sighed, trudging up the stairs and making a face at the dress. It looked an awful lot like a formal evening gown, although it was hard to tell off the hanger.

 

“Stop making that face. You’re lucky I’m not tying you to a chair and putting makeup on you,” he threatened. “And I might change my mind about that.” Tucking his hand around her elbow, he steered her into one of the guest bedrooms and handed her the dress.

 

She unfolded it and looked it over. It was long, and blue, and not very ornate (which she was secretly grateful for). It was also long-sleeved, with a squared-off collar that looked demure enough for her tastes.

 

Hermione had shrugged her coat off before she realised that Draco was still in the room, with Harry leaning against the doorframe.

 

For a moment, they all just stared at each other.

 

Then, Hermione huffed, “Do you _mind_?”

 

Draco rolled his eyes. “I need to tailor it. Besides, do you think any of this is _new_ to me?” She continued to glare at him. “You won’t even be fully naked. You’ll be in your knickers. I saw those yesterday.”

 

“I saw her naked, once,” Harry offered, and Hermione’s glare snapped to him with such ferocity that he flinched. “It was an _accident_!”

 

“My arse,” she grumbled. “Draco, I’m not doing anything until you two turn around.”

 

They both dutifully turned, and she began to quickly undress. She heard Draco murmur, “When’d you see her naked?”

 

“During the war,” Harry whispered back. “She was changing in the tent, and I kind of, uh, walked in.”

 

“I _told you I was changing_ ,” she snapped, kicking the leggings free of her feet and searching for the bottom hem of the dress. She yanked it on at top speed, glad that it was long enough to completely cover her legs. Draco probably _really would_ have an aneurysm if he noticed they weren’t shaved.

 

Harry groaned. This was a _very old_ argument. “You did _not_ ; you told _Ron_.”

 

“You were standing right next to him!”

 

“Well, yeah, but I wasn’t _paying attention_ ,” he defended. She made an exasperated noise, and he grimaced. “Are you dressed?”

 

She straightened the dress a bit. “Yeah. I need you to button it up.”

 

Draco, being closer, was the one that turned and reached for her back. She felt a brief flicker of embarrassment when she realised that he was looking at her bra before she recalled that he’d spent twenty straight minutes having a _very good look_ at one the night before. Hermione gathered her hair as his fingers worked their way up her spine.

 

When it was buttoned up, Draco took her shoulder and turned her, giving the dress a critical once-over. Taking out his wand, he muttered a charm, tapping it against the dress.

 

The bottom hem shrunk, as did the sleeves.

 

Hermione gestured at the collar. It hung a little lower than she thought it was supposed to, showcasing more cleavage than she felt was appropriate for _breakfast_. “What about this?”

 

Draco’s eyes lingered there. “ _That_ , I’ve no issue with,” he said, smirking faintly.

 

“You are a prat and a half.”

 

His smirk only widened, and he gestured at the closet. “The shoes are in there. I hope you can keep your balance in heels, Granger, because I’m not shortening those. Potter, do you have anything to deal with that _mop_ on her head?”

 

Harry nodded. “I’ve got some Sleekeazy. I think Ginny left some makeup behind, once, too. I bet I could find it.”

 

“I’m not wearing some other girl’s makeup,” Hermione sniffed. “That’s ludicrously unhygienic.” Her gaze narrowed slightly when the two men shared a glance, their eyes lingering on each other before panning back to her with a new sense of purpose. “If either of you _idiots_ pull a wand on me, I swear to _God_ —”

 

She shrieked as they grabbed her, and spent the whole trip to their bathroom thrashing like a madwoman.

 

They won, in the end. _Only_ because she’d left her wand in the clothes she’d changed out of, which she made _sure_ they both knew by the time they were leaving to make their reservation. They both knew her well enough not to argue the point.

 

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The awkwardness Hermione felt upon first entering the country club soon passed. Despite her reservations, she was dressed the same as anyone else there, and if anyone noticed who she was and realised her blood status, they were smart enough to keep their opinions to themselves. The service was beyond sublime, and the food was _amazing_.

 

“This place is great,” she said, looking around the dining room. Everything was elegant, from the carpet to the wall sconces. “How come you two never invite any of us along?”

 

A faint sneer etched onto Draco’s face. “What, _your_ friends? _That_ parade of clowns? We’d never be allowed _back_.”

 

“Hey,” Harry warned, eyes narrowing a bit.

 

Draco fell silent but indulged in an eye-roll. Glancing around, Hermione had to wonder if Draco wasn’t right. It was _insulting_ , for sure, but Ron _did_ chew with his mouth open and Ginny _did_ have a tendency to be loud. Neville probably wouldn’t be able to make it through a meal without dropping all of his silverware and covering his shirt in whatever he was eating. If Luna were _around_ to invite instead of backpacking through the Andes, she’d probably end up underneath a table in the pursuit of Nargles.

 

It was a rude thing to say, but Hermione _understood_ why none of them had ever been invited. “But you invited me. Weren’t you worried about that?” she wondered.

 

Shaking his head, Draco took a sip of his mimosa. “No. Potter said I couldn’t just invite one of you, though, because the others ones would get their stupid feelings hurt. Apparently, it’s _different_ if we’re trying to shag you blind, though.”

 

Harry sighed. “Draco, for God’s sake.”

 

The blond looked unrepentant, smirking behind his champagne glass. Hermione bit back a snicker, not really wanting to encourage Draco’s utter prat-ness. Harry saw the way she pressed her lips together, though, and shook his head in disappointment.

 

“Well,” Hermione said, fighting a grin and losing, “thanks for having me.”

 

“Technically, we _haven’t_ had you, yet,” Draco drawled.

 

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “ _Draco_ . Not while we’re eating here. You won’t let Ginny come because you’re afraid she’ll embarrass you, remember, and yet _you_ can sit there and say stuff like that?”

 

“Weaselette would have screamed it at the top of her lungs,” Draco reminded him, squinting a bit. “No one outside of you two heard _me_.”

 

“Behave yourself, or _next_ Sunday I turn this into a group outing.”

 

The threat did the trick because Draco turned his attention back to his omelette (although he still radiated a sense of suffocating smugness). Hermione was still choking back laughter, and quickly grabbed her own mimosa to try and hide her struggle behind a few sips.

 

Harry glared at her. “Don’t encourage him.”

 

“I’m not,” she squeaked, grinning madly.

 

He sighed again, eyes drifting upwards as though God Himself might be able to lend a hand, and Hermione gave in and started snickering, making Draco’s self-satisfied smirk widen.

 

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Pascal had three artists sitting in a semi-circle, all of them sharp-eyed and with their sketchpads at the ready. As Hermione slipped into view, the sensation of four pairs of eyes zeroing in on her with laser-like focus was almost enough to turn her right back around. But Ginny’s palpable excitement and the promise of all that money kept her moving forward until she was squarely in front of all of them.

 

At a loss for what to do with her hands, she shoved them into her pockets. She knew she was slouching, wanting to shrink into herself and disappear.

 

“Do you see that sense of sadness?” Pascal asked one of his artists, gesturing at her face. “That almost… _belligerent_ sense of insecurity? Capture that. We can emulate that on the runway. _That’s_ how the look becomes an icon. The runway attitude is everything.”

 

Hermione stared at him. _Belligerent sense of insecurity_? Her eyes narrowed a bit as she glared at him, her lips thinning.

 

Pascal snapped his fingers, pointing at her face. “Someone draw that. Draw that expression. That scowl is _half_ the look. Of course, we’ll have to practise with the models for a less severe version. We still want it to look pretty. And they _cannot_ get wrinkles, their faces are their _life_ . Capture the slouch, Martine. Merlin, I _love_ the misery, Hermione, you are a _perfect_ muse.”

 

Ginny recognised that stare—that flat, _I think I’m going to strangle someone in this room to death_ look that Hermione had perfected over the years—and spoke to distract her. “Are the outfits going to look a lot like this?”

 

“No, no,” Pascale huffed. “No. I’d never work in fashion, again. I just want to capture the _feel_ of it.”

 

Pansy entered with a house-elf in tow, and gestured at a table. The elf brought the tea tray to the table and set it down. Hermione examined her for any signs of abuse, but although the elf had the tell-tale sense of meekness most elves seemed to exhibit, she looked somewhat happy (by house-elf standards of measurement, anyway) as she scampered back towards the kitchen.

 

Like everything else in Pansy’s flat, the tea tray was a vision of modern _haute couture_ , all strong lines and solid colours.

 

“I remember this one,” Pansy murmured, gesturing at Hermione. “I remember thinking, _Merlin, weren’t all the tie-dye shirts burned years ago?_ I was actually trying to remember when that stuff came into fashion, and I realised that if fashion is truly cyclical, Granger might _actually_ be a bit of a savant. I think this is the outfit that made me consider introducing her to you.”

 

Pascal got on his toes to deliver a kiss to her cheeks, in the French fashion, the smack of their lips pursing against air echoing around the expansive room. “As usual, your instincts are flawless, my darling wildflower.”

 

 _My arse_ , Hermione thought, uncharitably, turning around when one of the artists asked her to.

 

They continued to chat about Hermione as she changed into various outfits. Most of it was about how her fashion sense was _so awful_ that it was actually kind of _good_ , a concept Hermione couldn’t wrap her brain around no matter how hard she tried.

 

By the time she was in her last outfit and standing tiredly before the furiously-sketching artists, she was _done_ . She didn’t like fashion. She didn’t want to be in the _fashion world_ . Being positively objectified _did not_ feel better than being negatively objectified, which was something she’d always known at a cerebral level but now _understood_ on a visceral one. When the last artist finally put her pencil down, she just felt so relieved to know that it was _finally_ over that she almost collapsed on the spot to take a nap.

 

Ginny noticed her draining energy and offered her tea and snacks several times, growing a little worried. Finally, she’d moved her chair closer to Hermione and started whispering jokes to her in order to make her laugh.

 

Thankfully, Hermione had started tuning out the moment Pansy and Pascal started chatting about what a shame it was that she wasn’t taller and thinner, so she could walk the runway herself. Apparently, the fact that she wouldn’t have been caught _dead_ walking a runway wasn’t more of a factor than her dimensions. Hermione was pretty sure she would have _actually_ strangled someone if she hadn’t been too busy thinking about her elf rights project, instead.

 

Then, Ginny was poking her, whispering, “Hey, they’re done,” and Hermione felt all the gathering lethargy and ennui finally descend upon her, threatening to crush her into the floor.

 

Gathering up her clothes, she headed for the door.

 

Pascal came running up. “Honey, wait! Your payment,” he reminded her, jingling a little coin purse. “Consider the purse a tip, sweetie. You were _magnificent_ today; I can’t remember the last time I saw anything so _real_ in fashion. Ugh, just _thinking_ about my new line is making me lose my mind. You were perfect. Perfect. _Perfect!_ ”

 

Hermione accepted the purse, smiling wanly through his little speech. She wanted nothing more than to go home, crawl into bed, and _recuperate_ from this little exercise. Fashionistas were like psychological vampires, and she felt as though she’d been sucked dry.

 

Finally, after saying goodbye to everyone about four or five times (the artists kept _thanking her_ , to her utter consternation), she escaped.

 

Crookshanks began _screaming_ the second she entered her flat; his dinner was an hour late. Wincing, Hermione muttered, “I know, I know, I know. I’m sorry, Crooksie; I’m getting it.” He twined around her feet as she tried to get to the food, and reared up on his hind legs to dig his claws into her leg as she opened the can. He didn’t stop yowling _for even a second_ until the bowl was put in front of him.

 

She found herself too tired to consider eating dinner, and instead just brushed her teeth and showered, eager to get a head start on sleeping. The notion of returning to work the next day provided a balancing sense of purpose after getting picked apart by Pascal and his merry band of snobs, and she found herself relaxing as the hot water drummed against her skin.

 

When she crawled into bed, she thought about Harry and Draco. Not in the _need a vibrator_ way, either, although if her thoughts lingered on them much longer, that might change.

 

Mostly, she found herself thinking that it would have been awfully nice to cuddle up to someone, just then.


	8. Black-Nosed Buddha

**The Hedgehog's Dilemma**

 

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**Chapter Eight: Black-Nosed Buddha**

  
  


When she handed Ron the bag, he stared at it for a moment, recognising the logo on the outside immediately. “Jon’s Sandwich Shop?” he asked, quizzically. Usually, her dinners over the weekend (and his Monday leftovers) were  _ unquestionably _ the best part of the week. 

 

Hermione’s face scrunched. “I didn’t get a chance to cook either day,” she admitted. Saturday, she’d filled up on popcorn. Sunday, she’d just fallen straight into bed, exhausted. “Sorry.”

 

His eyebrows lifted and then waggled a bit. “ _ Ohhh _ .”

 

“It  _ was not _ like that,” she huffed, her face reddening. “I just got busy with other stuff.” Ron continued to make suggestive noises, and she rolled her eyes and pivoted on her heel. “Shut  _ up _ . You are  _ so _ annoying. I’m just going to let you  _ starve _ , tomorrow.”

 

Ron leant on the counter to shout after her. “If you let me die, who are you going to give your extra food to, a homeless dog?”

 

“Me!” George bellowed from upstairs.

 

“Or  _ worse _ ?” Ron added, pointing at the upper level. 

 

Hermione leant against the door for a moment, biting back a smile. “Good  _ morning _ and good _ bye _ ,” she said, sweetly. “Enjoy your sandwich. I put everything that existed in that shop on it since flavour apparently doesn’t matter to you.”

 

He winked and blew her a kiss, and she let the grin spread across her face as she slipped back onto the street.

 

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The first half of the week went by without incident. She’d begun meeting Harry in the cafeteria on the days he was working in the office—without him even needing to remind her to eat. It made him a lot more bearable for the days when he was  _ out _ of the office and realised that she’d forgotten. 

 

It was already Thursday, when Ginny appeared at her cubicle. “Hey. I’m stealing you for lunch, today.”

 

Hermione blinked at her. “What? I can’t go for a long lunch, Ginny; I’ve got too much to do,” she said, apologetic. “Can’t we plan for next week, sometime? I have about  _ fifty _ deadlines to meet tomorrow.”

 

Ginny examined her nails. “We  _ could _ plan something for next week... if you’re okay with me grilling you—at the top of my lungs—about why I just heard from  _ Daphne Greengrass _ that you, Harry, and Draco went on a  _ brunch date _ this past Sunday.” She lifted her gaze, her eyes narrowing a bit when she caught Hermione’s shell-shocked, guilty expression. “And why she saw Harry  _ kiss you on the lips  _ as you were leaving, while Draco’s arm was wrapped around your waist.”

 

Hermione just stared at her, her stomach flip-flopping. “Erm…”

 

“So, should I start shouting  _ now _ , or—?” Ginny beamed as Hermione jumped to her feet, hastily grabbing her coat from the hook. “Oh, good, we’re going to lunch. That’ll be  _ nice _ . It’ll give me a whole hour to pump you for information on why you’re apparently dating  _ two almost-married men _ —”

 

“Shhh!” Hermione hissed, charging towards Ginny and covering her mouth with her hand. “Wait until we get  _ outside _ , at least, would you?”

 

Content, Ginny nodded, remaining quiet as Hermione weaved a scarf around her own neck.

 

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She’d shot Harry a quick owl as she followed Ginny out, keeping the note brief:  _ Ginny figured it out. She’s making me take lunch with her to gossip about it. Meet you later? _

 

Once they’d settled in at the pub down the street, Hermione reached for the menu and yelped as Ginny’s hands descended upon her wrists like iron shackles, squeezing them tightly. “Ow!” Hermione howled, twisting them free with a pained gasp. “Ginny, oh my  _ God _ .”

 

“You’d better have a  _ damn good reason _ for why  _ Ron _ knows, but I don’t,” Ginny said, her eyes becoming narrow slits.

 

_ Damn it, Ron _ , Hermione thought, spitefully wishing she’d not remembered to get him that sandwich. She supposed she couldn’t fault him, too much. Half the point of telling him the secret was in assuming no one would ever think to ask him about it. As usual, Hermione hadn’t accounted for Ginny’s  _ thoroughness _ when it came to sniffing out choice tidbits of scandal. 

 

Hermione’s shoulders hunched a bit. “You would’ve told someone.”

 

“I would  _ not _ . I am a  _ vault _ ,” Ginny gasped. When Hermione just stared at her, she rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m at  _ least _ a hotel safe. Whatever. Moving on.  _ What the hell happened _ ? Tell me  _ everything _ .”

 

It didn’t take very long to catch her up—ten minutes, at the most—and their food had arrived by then.

 

“Oh, my God. Draco  _ and _ Harry. At the same  _ time _ . The amount of sheer  _ luck _ that has rained down upon you all your life is just otherworldly, Hermione,” Ginny groaned. “And you’re not  _ sure _ about doing it? I’ll trade places with you. How’s that for an offer?”

 

Hermione scoffed. “Right, because that’s how it works. I can just tag  _ anyone _ in. Besides, it’s not like I’m not…  _ interested _ . It’s just… I mean, what if it doesn’t work out?”

 

“At least you’ll have all those memories of mind-blowing threesome sex.”

 

Cocking her head, Hermione ignored the way her cheeks heated. “I really don’t know why I expect anything resembling comfort, from you,” she murmured, fascinated with herself. “Every time we talk, I go, oh, Ginny will make me feel better. You’re about as comforting as a quilt filled with rocks.”

 

Ginny threw her head back and laughed, the sound booming through the pub. That was her, though: beautiful, vibrant, and larger-than-life. Hermione found herself smiling even as she shook her head. Ginny’s laughter was as infectious as always.

 

When she’d calmed, Ginny promised, “Okay, I’ll work on being a  _ comfort _ . You work on getting both ends lubed up.”

 

“Ginny!”

 

The redhead danced a bit in her seat, singing, “ _ Double penetration, comin’ all over me… _ ” 

 

It took Hermione a few seconds to place the tune— _ Just My Imagination _ by the Temptations—as she groaned loudly, covering her reddening face with her hands. Ginny’s couple of years dating Harry had exposed her to the magic of Muggle music; since then, she’d been collecting it. Her CD collection was probably larger than that of  _ any _ Muggle Hermione knew. 

 

“Oh, my God,” Hermione muttered, as Ginny leant back and started to belt it out.

 

“ _ Oh, oh, double penetra-ay-tion, comin’ all ovvverrr meee _ ,” Ginny sang, squeezing her eyes shut as the  _ soul _ of the music took her. Of course, her singing voice left much to be desired.

 

Hermione picked up a chip and threw it at her face, and Ginny stopped with a surprised shout as it bounced off her nose and landed in her lap. “You sound like a dying hyena. Also, what is  _ the matter _ with you? How many times, exactly, were you dropped on your head as an infant?”

 

Ginny grinned, not embarrassed in the slightest. “Well, you have to remember that I grew up with Fred and George, so… a lot?”

 

Shaking her head, Hermione put another chip in her mouth even though she wasn’t really still hungry. As she was chewing, she pushed the basket away from herself;  _ this _ probably wasn’t helping with that extra stone she’d packed on. “I thought you had a game, today.”

 

“Oh, that’s tonight,” Ginny said, with a dismissive wave. “Are you coming? You and your two boy-toys should come if you’re looking for date ideas.”

 

Hermione shook her head. “I’ve got some stuff to catch up on at the office,” she admitted. “I was going to stay a little late and try to get it done before tomorrow. I wasn’t kidding about having a bunch of deadlines, you know.”

 

“And, let me guess: all the work is actually done, and you’re just freaking out over it being perfect for no real reason.”

 

Face scrunching, Hermione glared at her. “ _ No _ .”

 

Ginny grinned, again. “You  _ liar _ ,” she said, sounding absolutely delighted. “Is Draco teaching you how to lie properly? Are you going to pick up that  _ Malfoy poker face _ ? Maybe if you do, the elder Malfoy will stop beating your initiatives to death with his ridiculous cane. Merlin, he is so  _ fit _ . If only he weren’t a raging arsehole.”

 

“First of all: ew. Ew, ew, ew,” Hermione muttered, her face twisting in disgust. “And no, but Draco did promise to try and help me weasel around his stupid father a bit, as long as I won't rat him out for doing it.”

 

Ginny’s dumb grin widened. “He’s  _ helping _ you. Oh, he  _ fancies _ you.”

 

“Shut. Up. Ginny.” 

 

As she fished for her wallet, Ginny held up a hand. “Oh, no. You’ve paid your share in beautiful, beautiful words. I got this,” she said, throwing a few coins onto the table and sliding out of the booth. “And if you tell me all the dirty details about the first time you guys do the horizontal monster mash, I’ll pick up  _ that _ lunch, too.”

 

“Oh, my God,” Hermione intoned, disbelieving. “You are so unbelievably gross.”

 

Happy as a clam, Ginny linked their elbows together as they started back for the Ministry, humming a merry little tune.

 

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Harry slipped into her cubicle at the end of his workday, offering her a sympathetic grimace as he sat down in the extra chair. “How’d she find out?” he asked, not bothering to waste time with small pleasantries.

 

Sighing, Hermione tidied up her papers a bit. “Daphne Greengrass saw us at the club. It’s fine, Ginny was mostly indignant that I’d told Ron but not her—”

 

“You told  _ Ron _ ?”

 

_ Oh _ . “Well, I had to ask  _ someone _ about it!” she retorted, defensively. “Ginny would have held a  _ press conference _ , and I don’t have  _ all that many _ other friends. Ron can’t keep a straight face, but at least he wasn’t going to find the nearest set of ears and talk them off about it.”

 

Blinking, Harry shrugged. “I’m not mad, I’m just surprised he didn’t say anything,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “Kind of awkward, you being his old… I mean, you know.”

 

She hesitated. “Actually, I think he cares the  _ least _ out of the three of us,” she said, in a dry tone. “His main concern is that I’m going to bollocks it up somehow, and we’d friendship-divorce and have split friend-custody of him.”

 

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “So, uh… what’d you tell her?” When Hermione just stared at him, he clarified, “About us. Are we, uh… Is it  _ official _ , or…?”

 

“Oh.” Hermione swallowed. “I mean, I don’t… I don’t really know how it works,” she admitted, feeling a prickle of embarrassment. She hadn’t imagined they’d be having this talk so  _ soon _ . “And I don’t want to say we’re something and then we’re not. I sort of just told her we were trying it out and seeing how it goes.”

 

“Ah,” he said, nodding, his gaze flicking away—but not before she registered the disappointment in it.

 

_ Shit _ . 

 

Her eyebrows drawing together, she stared at her parchments for a long moment, not sure how to verbalise her feelings. “I mean, it’s not because… I’m not… interested, or invested, or… I mean, it’s kind of hard to say where the line is, you know? With you guys being a couple, at what point are we ‘just experimenting’ and at what point are we…  _ together _ ?”

 

Harry inhaled, slow and deep. “My guess would be that we’re all together when we all agree that we are,” he murmured, thoughtfully. “You know what my vote is. The only hold-backs are you and Draco.”

 

She sucked her cheek between her teeth and gnawed on it. “Does he have objections?” she asked, softly.

 

“No,” Harry denied, quickly. “No. It’s more like… well, I mean, when he and I were dating, I think it was about  _ six months _ before he would even say that what we were doing was ‘dating.’ He’s the kind of person you have to de-shell, first. Actually, come to think of it, so are you.” Laughing, he sat back, marvelling at his own stupid luck. “Wow, I really set myself up for failure, here.”

 

Hermione shook her head a bit. “I mean, you’re already in the shell, Harry, you know that.”

 

“It doesn’t count unless  _ he _ is, too,” Harry said, shaking his head again. “This isn’t a situation where I get to date him and then date you separately. This is… You know, it’s both of us or neither.”

 

Licking her lips, she focused on re-tidying her papers. They absolutely did not need tidying, but it was nice to have something to  _ look _ at that wasn’t Harry’s earnest face. “I like him, Harry.”

 

“I know. I’m just being impatient, I guess. What are you still doing here, by the way? It’s nearly seven. No, wait.” He held up a finger to halt her response. Clearing his throat, he put on his Hermione-falsetto and the primmest, most disapproving expression he could muster. “ _ I’m just catching up on some stuff, Harry, even though it’s been done for about three or four weeks, and I’m very unlikely to make any major changes in the next couple of hours. I simply can’t leave well enough alone, as you know! I might decide to turn a comma into a period! It’s very important! _ ”

 

He fell silent, looking satisfied as Hermione glared at him. 

 

“Are you quite through?” she asked, lips pursing.

 

“I feel I’ve said all I needed to say,” he agreed, sombre. 

 

“Great. Get out, and let me work.”

 

Harry chuckled, standing without argument. “Come over tomorrow,” he suggested. “And I’ll go to your flat and feed Crookshanks tonight. You know if he waits much longer, he’ll tear your couch up.”

 

God, did she ever. She was already on her third second-hand couch. “Thanks, Harry.”

 

He turned to go, and she grabbed his hand, making him twist back around. Hermione jumped to her feet and leant in before she could give herself a chance to doubt the movement, sinking into his embrace as he folded his arms around her waist. The kiss lingered.

 

When Harry finally pulled back, he murmured, “You’re making it really hard for me to care about making sure Crookshanks gets fed on time.”

 

Snorting, she stepped back, untwining his arms from her waist. “Go, go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Do  _ not _ stay here until bedtime, Hermione,” he warned, pointing at her threateningly as he stepped out of her cubicle. Then his footsteps were fading away, and she was left with her parchments. Her plain, boring parchments.

 

Staring at her papers, she sighed. “Should’ve just gone with him,” she muttered to herself, before grabbing the elf rights initiative again.


	9. No Water, No Moon

**The Hedgehog's Dilemma**

 

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**Chapter Nine: No Water, No Moon**

  


Harry collected her after work the next day at her cubicle. “You mind if I follow you to your flat?” he asked, collapsing in the extra seat. His arm flopped over some of her papers, crumpling them a bit. “Draco’s having dinner with his parents, and I’m bored.”

 

Scowling, Hermione tugged her papers free from his arm and shot him a baleful look. “Why aren’t you going for dinner, too?”

 

He shrugged. “I do, every now and then. But sometimes I just let them do the family unit thing. I’m always bored stiff, anyway. All Mrs. Malfoy wants to talk about is what’s going on in society— _barf_ —and Mr. Malfoy just sits there and eats in silence, for the most part. I don’t always get the impression they’re entirely ‘on board’ with Draco and me,” he admitted. “I mean, they’ve never said it outright, and they’ve been cordial with me, so who knows what they really think.”

 

Wow. Hermione was _sure excited_ to hear how they would take the news that Draco was also some sort of swinging polygamist, then. That was going to be just _great_.

 

“They’ve never said _anything_ about it? Not even when it first started?” she asked, curiously.

 

Harry started to shake his head and then stopped, chuckling. “Okay, wait. Actually, yes. The first time it got _formally announced_ to them, I was in the room, and Mrs. Malfoy turned _bright red_ and demanded to know how we were planning on providing her with a grandchild.”

 

“Red, like, she was embarrassed?”

 

He shook his head. “No, upset. You know how people sometimes turn red before they start crying? Kind of like that. Mr. Malfoy had to help her out of the room. I guess adoption isn’t a _thing_ in their circles.”

 

She snorted, a little unkindly, and tapped some of her parchments together to align the edges. “ _Adoption_ ? From the family who believes so fervently in their own superior genetic material that they’ve intermarried like... _ten times_ in the past five centuries? Yeah, right. They want a _Malfoy_ . Some stroppy, little, pureblooded brat, just like _their_ kid.”

 

Swallowing a laugh, Harry defended, “They didn’t _intermarry_. You make it sound like Ancient Egypt with brothers marrying sisters.”

 

“Look, I’m _sorry_ , but marrying into another family for a single generation and then marrying your kids right back _into_ your own family is incestuous and disgusting,” she huffed, rolling her eyes. Clipping her stack of papers together, she set it at the corner of her desk. “And I don’t buy that whole _magic keeps us from producing frog people_ nonsense. Like magic can somehow negate inbreeding! If they think they’re fooling anyone but themselves with that propaganda, they’re in for a rude awakening.”

 

Harry was laughing, despite his best efforts not to. “As always, your rants are charming and hilarious,” he said, warmly. “Look, can I come over for dinner, or not?”

 

“You can. As long as you admit that Draco is inbred,” she said, primly.

 

He leant in, looking at her with narrowed eyes. “If Draco’s inbred, then thank _God_ for inbreeding. That man hit the genetic _jackpot_.”

 

She was shaking with repressed laughter as she finished tidying up her papers. “That’s revolting,” she said, fondly. “I don’t have a lot in the house right now. I haven’t gone shopping in over a week, no thanks to you. I think I have dry pasta and… hummus.”

 

“Yum; Greek spaghetti. I’m in.” He pushed to his feet, grabbing her jacket and helping her into it.

 

As he wrapped her scarf around her neck, he tugged her towards him, his grin widening and bringing out the dimples in his cheeks. When she was pressed against him, he just waited, eyebrows raised.

 

She wasn’t about to pretend she didn’t know what he wanted. Fighting her own grin, she leant in and kissed him. It was alarming how quickly she was getting used to kissing her own best friend—someone she’d once referred to as ‘like her own brother.’ Maybe she shouldn’t be hounding the purebloods too viciously for incestuous practises; it didn’t look like her own backyard was very clean in regards to that.

 

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Harry had settled in at her kitchen table as she tried to scrounge up enough food for a passable dinner. After attempting one of her sudoku puzzles (and ruining the entire page because he did it in _pen_ \-- thanks a _lot_ ), he leant against the table and just watched her. “How are your parents?”

 

“Good. Mum just had her birthday, and she’s trying to go vegetarian, which Dad is obviously rioting over. He’s started some kind of underground rebellion that he’s tried to recruit me into,” she explained. She found a can of crushed tomatoes in her pantry and brightened a bit as she pulled it out. “Mostly, the Carnivore’s Rebellion has only committed minor transgressions, like getting free meat samples at the deli and eating them in protest.”

 

Grimacing a bit at the notion of giving up meat, Harry murmured, “ _Viva la revolucion_. Should I smuggle the poor man some bacon?”

 

Hermione glared at him before fishing for the can opener. “You are _not_ to indulge his childish antics,” she ordered. “Also, if you’re going to be here, you have to help me make dinner. Can you get a pot of water boiling?”

 

“I’m a _guest_ ,” he complained, but he stood and moved towards a cabinet to hunt down a good-sized pot.

 

After a few minutes of silence as they worked in tandem, he spoke. “You know what’s really terrible about his situation, though? He can’t even sneak off and get a meat-filled lunch at work. Because he works with her. They’re around each other 24/7.”

 

Chuckling, Hermione upended the tomatoes into a saucepan and rustled up some spices. “Yeah. I don’t know how they do that. I feel like if I had to spend every second of my life with someone, I’d go absolutely mad,” she admitted, shaking her head a bit. “The fact that they can do that and _not_ spend every day arguing or threatening each other with divorce papers seems like a miracle. But, honestly, I’d _love_ to have that kind of connection with someone I’m involved with. I won’t lie.”

 

Harry was silent for a beat before pointing out, “I mean, we spend a lot of time together.”

 

“Yeah, but not _all_ the time,” she retorted. “And honestly, think about it… that’s hard to do, isn’t it? How do you keep from driving each other _insane_ in that kind of situation?”

 

Shrugging, he kept his eyes locked on the pot of boiling water, his fingers fiddling with the pasta box idly. “I think if it’s with the right _people_ , it’d be easy,” he finally decided, quietly. “You know, you have the right sort of people around, and thinking about being _apart_ would be the aspect that drives you mad. Not being together.”

 

“Maybe,” she said, sceptically. “You can’t tell me you aren’t a _little_ grateful that you get to leave Draco at home while you go the Ministry on weekdays.”

 

His smile was crooked and a little bashful. “Actually, I’d love to stay at home with him.” Hermione’s eyebrows shot up, and she opened her mouth, but he beat her to it. “And yes, I know I _could_. I don’t work to avoid him, I work because I just… need a purpose. I mean, even Draco has hobbies to keep him occupied. He makes potions and studies stuff.”

 

“Studies?” She frowned, peering at him from the corners of her eyes. She never got the impression that Draco was still involved in academia in _any_ capacity. Honestly, she’d always assumed that he just hung out with his friends and slept a lot. “What does he study?”

 

The water started to boil, and Harry peeled the box of pasta open. “Alchemy, Arithmancy, History, Potions, Astronomy... Whatever he wants, really.”

 

Snorting, Hermione grabbed a wooden spoon, stirring her pale imitation of ‘pasta sauce.’ “Maybe he’s glad you leave, then, so he has some peace and quiet,” she pointed out. When Harry shook his head, she huffed. “Oh, come on. You can’t pretend like it’s some sort of relationship utopia.”

 

“It isn’t. But he studies with me in the room, you know,” he said, squinting at her. “I know not to bother him when he’s reading. I’m not a _complete_ git. The only thing that’s good about me going to work on weekdays is we don’t end up chafing to death from all the shagging.” She groaned, and he grinned. “Yeah, Hermione, we _shag_ . A lot. A very, _very_ healthy amount.”

 

“Stop,” she commanded.

 

Harry laughed, poking at the pasta to make sure it didn’t start sticking together in the water. The crushed tomatoes were reaching a simmer, and Hermione peered at them critically. This was definitely not going to be as good as proper tomato sauce, but given the situation, it was a decent enough approximation.

 

“Who, um…” Hermione trailed off, feeling her face heat. This was wildly inappropriate, but being that she was _getting involved_ , she felt like _maybe_ she was allowed to ask. “I mean, when you… you know…”

 

Harry waited a beat, and then suggested, “Shag?”

 

“Yes,” she ground out, narrowing her eyes at him. “I mean, when you… do it… who’s… I don’t know what the popular vernacular is for it…”

 

His eyebrows rose. “On top?”

 

Heaving a sigh of relief at finally having it out, she nodded, well aware that she was turning red, and quickly.

 

“We take turns.”

 

Hermione frowned. For some reason, she’d always imagined that a gay relationship would have two people who generally stuck to their roles. Of course, that was mostly because her understanding of relationships was heavily informed by her previous _heterosexual_ ones. She wondered what _else_ she was horribly wrong about. “So you… Take it. Sometimes.” She caught Harry’s suppressed smile as he nodded, and wrinkled her nose. “The first time you… did it hurt?”

 

For a moment, he just stared at the boiling pasta, a smile fighting its way across his face. Then, he looked at her, suddenly unsure if she’d actually said that or if he’d just imagined it. “What?” he asked, starting to laugh.

 

“I mean, um. Is that… I’m sorry, I’m not trying to—was that inappropriate? I’m sorry, Harry,” she babbled. She was pretty sure her head was about to explode from all the blood rushing to her face. She’d always _kind of wondered_ if it was painful for men, the first time; if it was similar to the pain women associated with losing _their_ virginity. Of course, it had felt wildly indelicate to ever ask, so she hadn’t. “Forget I said anything.”

 

He was still laughing. When he calmed, he turned towards her, leaning in a bit. “Did you want to try it out?” he teased, his laughter returning as the blush travelled over her ears and down her neck and chest. “Why are you so embarrassed? I’m not mad, it’s just funny that you’re asking.”

 

“Oh, God,” she moaned, realising that she was unlikely to avoid getting teased about this for the next _forever_ . “ _Please_ forget I said anything.”

 

“No way,” he refused, promptly. “That was absolutely precious. I’m going to remember it forever.”

 

Her eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t tell Draco, then.”

 

“I _cannot_ promise that.”

 

She shut the cooker off, groaning sadly. _Welcome to seventy or so years of being relentlessly reminded of this conversation, Hermione. Good job_. Pulling the saucepan off the burner, she found a colander and dropped it in the sink, avoiding his gaze.

 

Harry was still grinning when he took pity on her. “It was definitely a little uncomfortable,” he said. She shot him a surprised look, having not expected an answer at all, and his grin briefly widened. “I mean, I was all tensed up, so it was bound to be. But if it’s done right, it doesn’t have to hurt. Or even really be uncomfortable. As long as everyone goes slow and they’re relaxed.”

 

“Oh,” she said in a tiny voice, still flushing.

 

He shook his head as he watched her. She was _fucking adorable_. He hadn’t dropped the “L-word’ again since that first confession, not wanting to completely spook her, but moments like this made it hard. “By the way, you can ask me whatever you want. Nothing’s off-limits between us.”

 

“You say that _now_ ,” she muttered, in a dry tone. “Wait until I suddenly cross a line.”

 

Harry picked up the pot and dumped the contents into the colander. “There are no lines for you to cross,” he promised. “Not for me, anyway. I won’t make that promise for Draco. You two are going to have to come up with your own system for oversharing.”

 

“Ugh. I bet Draco would get a kick out of telling me _more_ than I need to know, in as much _excruciating_ detail as humanly possible,” she grumbled. “He’s such a prat.”

 

“Mm,” he agreed. “But he’s our prat.”

 

She licked her lips, her mouth going a little dry, all of a sudden. No matter how many times they’d made it clear that this was just a test run, Harry seemed to be thinking about it in rather _permanent_ terms.

 

Hermione was torn between feeling a little cheered that he wanted it so badly and worried about what might happen if the test run didn’t work out.

 

“Alright, since there are no lines…”, Hermione started. Harry pivoted towards her, the _very picture_ of attentive interest, and she felt the blush return with reinforcements. Forcing herself not to look away like a coward, she struggled through the next sentence. “How do you envision… the… bedroom part of this working out? Like, how would we… you know?”

 

He put on his most innocent expression. “I don’t know. How would we what?”

 

“Harry!”

 

Chortling, he rolled his eyes. “Alright. And, um. Hm. I mean, I’ve never had a threesome, but I’ve seen a lot of pornography _with_ threesomes. So I guess… similar to that. It would probably work out best if we just followed our instincts.”

 

“What if we get into that situation and we don’t _have_ any instincts for a _threesome_?” she demanded. “We’re just going to sit there, naked and awkward?”

 

He stepped towards her, pushing her into the counter as he leant around her to grab the colander of pasta. “I am _quite positive_ ,” he said, slow and deliberate—the heat emanating from his body was making her brain turn to putty, “that we would figure it out.”

 

Before she could formulate a response, he stepped away, pulling some bowls out of her cabinets and dumping the pasta evenly between them.

 

His voice was casual. “Why? Have you given it a lot of thought?”

 

“ _No_ ,” she denied, but too quickly.

 

Twisting around, Harry stared at her, fighting a delighted smile. “You _have_ ,” he accused. “How do you imagine it going, then?”

 

“I _don’t_ ,” she squeaked, positively mortified. “Shut up and put the sauce on.”

 

Taking the saucepan from her, he poured the contents of it into both bowls. After putting the pan in the sink, though, he stood in front of the counter, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I’m holding your dinner hostage until you tell me.” When she tried to move around him, he mirrored her, back and forth—a _wall_ of man-child.

Hermione’s eyes flashed, and she reached for her side. Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “No!” he exclaimed, diving forward and wrapping his arms around her as she tried to fish her wand out. He held her in a bear hug as she struggled to get it out; she couldn’t quite get it free when her arms were so constrained. “I’m going to _confiscate_ that.”

 

She tried to drop, becoming dead weight, and he had no choice but to drop with her, straddling her torso as she slumped to the floor.

 

“I can’t believe you would rather _hex_ me than answer a _question_ ,” Harry panted once she’d stopped struggling and was lying prone on the tiles of her own kitchen. He still had his arms wrapped around her, but now his legs were caged around her, too, keeping her almost entirely immobilised.

 

Hermione was trying to gently shift her wand out with just her fingers, her movements small in hopes of avoiding his notice. “I’m hungry, and your questions are dumb.”

 

“They are _not_ dumb. _You’re_ dumb. If you tell me the truth to this next question, I’ll let you go.”

 

Suspicious, she peered up at him. “What?”

 

Harry leant down so that there was barely half an inch between their faces. He dropped his voice to a husky whisper. “Have you ever fantasised about us?”

 

Her jaw _dropped_ . “I’m _not answering that_!” she gasped, renewing her struggles a bit.

 

“That’s as good as a _yes_ ,” Harry said, smugly. “What did we do in your fantasy?” He moved his head to keep himself within her line of sight as she flailed, tossing her head back and forth as her face suffused pink. “Where’d you position the two of us?”

 

“I just want my pasta, Harry!”

 

He laughed, a low bellowing sound that came from deep in his chest. Then, he was kissing her, his bear-hugging arms shifting up to cradle her neck and head as he chuckled into her mouth. When she tried to pull away or go _dead fish_ on him, he chided her, “Don’t be a sore loser, Hermione.”

 

She surged up, returning the kiss with abandon as her lips curled into a sly smile. None the wiser, Harry sighed against her mouth, relaxing against her. Suddenly, he went stiff, their lips separating from each other. As he slowly lifted his head up from hers, his eyes narrowed as he recognised that the thing digging into the underside of his jaw was the tip of her wand.

 

She smirked. “Give me my pasta, you _git_.”

 

“The Hermione I know always plays _fair_ ,” he huffed, gently releasing her and moving to stand.

 

“ _All’s_ fair in love and war,” she returned, pushing to her feet with a victorious air. He remained sitting on the floor as she flounced over to her bowl of pasta and picked it up, sticking her tongue out at him a bit.

 

His eyes were narrowed, but the smile on his face kept the expression from being forbidding. “You’re as big of a brat as Draco is. Maybe even bigger.”

 

“Oh, don’t be a _sore loser_ , Harry,” she shot back, taunting. “And eat your dinner.”

 

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After dinner, they’d headed back to Grimmauld Place to wait for Draco. Harry had helped Hermione select something to wear that wouldn’t offend the blond’s delicate sensibilities—a nice top and jeans with some _modest_ heels—and they ended up on Harry’s sofa, lying side-by-side as they played Tetris on their mobiles.

 

“I’m at 2495,” she murmured, having just heard the _lost game_ signal from his mobile.

 

In retaliation, he reached over and knocked her phone out of her hands. It landed on the floor, and she scrambled for it, making an indignant noise when she heard the _lost game_ tone. “You are _so_ …” She retrieved the device and settled back onto the sofa, digging her elbow viciously into his side. “Immature.”

 

He grunted as she poked her elbow into his ribs, and then grabbed her around the middle and twisted them both around, dropping her between himself and the back of the sofa.

 

“That didn’t refute my point,” she huffed when she’d stopped squawking angrily and got her hair back out of her face.

 

Harry shifted towards her. “Oh, I wasn’t trying to refute your point,” he assured her, before rolling _hard_ into her and smushing her against the back of the sofa. She shrieked and tried to kick at him, but only succeeded in getting her legs tangled up with his as he proceeded to _flatten_ her.

 

“You are a _child_ , Harry Potter!” she shouted, thrashing as much as she could.

 

The Floo roared to life, and when Draco entered, he sighed, putting his hands in his pockets as he watched them struggle futilely. “And here I was, hoping he’d managed to at _least_ get you undressed,” he muttered.

 

Hermione groaned into the couch cushions. “I’m being turned into a _pancake_.”

 

“ _And_ she has her shoes _on the couch_ ,” Draco huffed, reaching down between them to pull her out. When Harry got in his way, Draco jabbed his fingers into the ticklish spot below his bellybutton, earning a yell as the poor man twitched towards the edge of the couch. With the added leeway, he hooked his arms around Hermione’s flailing form and pulled her up and out.

 

He was pretty sure that she kicked Harry in the arse with her heel on purpose, although she’d probably deny it. When Draco set her down, she started towards Harry again, and he grabbed her, twisting her back around towards him. Her cheeks were still rosy from the struggle and her laughter.

 

“No, my mobile’s in there!” she protested.

 

“Tough,” Draco told her, flatly. “It’s gone now. Buy a new one.”

 

Harry fished it out of the cushions. “It’s _mine_. I’m keeping it,” he announced, tucking it into his pocket.

 

Hermione surged back towards him. Although Draco caught her around the middle, she leant forward with all her might, hooking her fingers over the hem of Harry’s trousers.

 

“Hey!” Harry protested, trying to pry them off. He looked up at Draco, huffing. “A little _help_?”

 

But Draco just stood there, holding Hermione around the middle as she twisted back and forth, trying to fish her mobile out of Harry’s pocket. It took Harry several seconds to realise that Hermione was _grinding_ against his hips, and his eyes flew to her, wondering when she’d finally pick up on it, too. Draco seemed perfectly content to allow her to reach that conclusion in her own time.

 

Both men had gone still by the time Hermione finally got her mobile free, yelling “ _Ha!_ ” Then she fell still, herself, finally sensing the shift in dynamic.

 

Her arse was pressed against Draco’s hips, and one leg was extended behind her, between his. She was draped over his arms, hovering over _Harry’s_ hips. Hermione stared down at Harry’s trouser button for a second, frozen, and then lifted her gaze to meet his.

 

“So, remember the threesome porn I mentioned?” he asked, eyebrows raising. When she just stared at him, he added, “I imagine it’s kind of like this, actually.”

 

Her face went _so_ red _so_ quickly that Harry was actually genuinely concerned that she was going to have an apoplexy. She tried to straighten but didn’t have the leverage because Draco was holding her a bit too high for her feet to connect with the ground. And she certainly didn’t have the core strength to do it _without_ that leverage.

 

Finally, Draco eased one hand up to her ribs and pulled her up until she was back on her feet, although he remained pressed against her.

 

She craned her head to look at him over her shoulder, speechless.

 

His eyebrow lifted. “You don’t have laundry to do _tonight_ , do you?”


	10. The Moon Cannot Be Stolen

**The Hedgehog's Dilemma**

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**Chapter Ten: The Moon Cannot Be Stolen**

Hermione blinked at him, unsure of how to respond. For a moment, she considered whether or not she _wanted_ to move laundry to Fridays. On the other hand, it wasn't as though she could avoid this moment _forever_ , no matter how much of a chicken-shit she apparently was.

"No," Harry said, for her. His eyes were focused on the two of them. "She does laundry on Saturdays."

"Not _always_ —" she protested.

He cut her off. "Always."

Draco's grip on her tightened, and she found herself suddenly short of breath when she realised that he was _definitely_ aroused. "What was he saying about threesome porn?" he whispered in her ear, and the sensation of his breath sent shivers down her spine.

Harry sat up, moving his mobile carefully from his pocket to the coffee table—out of the way. "She was asking me earlier how I imagined it would be... with all of us."

Humming softly, Draco traced his lips down the side of her neck. "Well, we all know how curious Granger is prone to being. And when Granger's curiosity has taken hold, we _all_ know how impossible it is for her to focus on _anything else_ until it's satisfied," he murmured against her skin. With his arms wrapped around her, he began to rock her back and forth.

The movement was hypnotic, dulling her various concerns until all she could think about was the sensation of his mouth on her skin.

As her eyelids grew heavy, Harry scooted forward to the edge of the sofa. His eyes flicked over her, trying to figure out where to best insert himself without breaking her trance-like state. Finally, he ran his fingertips up the outsides of her thighs, craning his head back to look at her face. When his fingers reached her hands hanging loosely at her sides, he gripped them gently, his smile soft and encouraging.

Draco rocked her forward a bit, and when her knees bumped against Harry's, she swallowed and slid them onto the sofa, straddling his lap.

It wasn't as weird as she would have thought it would be just a week ago. Somehow, looking into Harry's face made it seem more _right_. Draco seemed to intuitively understand this, always positioning himself at her back whenever they did _anything_ as a trio. Sometimes, thinking about the level of planning that went into the Slytherin's movements made her head spin. She found herself wondering, not for the first time, just how intricately Draco calculated everything.

Once her knees were framing Harry's hips, Draco leant forward, gently urging Hermione to sit. Then, in one seamless movement, Draco's arms slid away from her and Harry's took their place.

Stricken with a sudden bout of shyness, she froze there, watching numbly as Draco's hands put her arms around Harry's neck. Once they were there, though, she came to an immediate conclusion that she had no idea what to _do_. There was some sort of mental block over the idea of acting _sexy_ to Harry. She was interested in sex; she _knew_ that. But when she realised she was meant to seduce him, her mind came to a complete and utter stop. She couldn't fathom _how_ to go about seducing him.

Sensing that something was a little amiss, Harry bit back a smile, endlessly amused by the notion of Hermione being at a loss. His hand slid up her back, urging her flat against him.

Automatically, her lips sought his.

Harry's hands drifted back down to her waist, his fingers splaying over them as he slid her forward, his hips moving up to meet hers. She whimpered into his mouth on contact; it had been _so long_ since _anyone_ had been there besides herself. After rutting against him a few times, she picked up a rhythm, gasping for breath whenever she got the chance.

After a few minutes of snogging and dry-humping, though, she found herself wondering: _Where's Draco?_

Was it weird to look for him? Would it break the flow? Would it _upset_ Harry?

Finding herself with no easy answers, she ended up just shoving the thought away from herself and focusing on Harry alone. At that point, she realised she was _not_ satisfied with dry-humping, and reached down to cup him through his jeans.

His hips shot off the sofa and nearly dislodged her as he startled, clearly not expecting anything half so brazen out of his bookish friend. Hermione began to fumble with the clasps of his trousers, undoing them in rough, jerky movements. The kiss broke as she looked down, reaching into the opened front of his jeans to try and fish his dick out of his pants.

"Ah—Christ," Harry hissed. "Easy, Hermione, it's not _going_ anywhere. Slow down."

"No," she said, decisively. Two years of celibacy. _Two years_. She was going to get bloody well laid tonight or _die trying_. She finally got through the fabric and closed on heated, hardened flesh, wrapping her hand around it securely as Harry stiffened, a whining noise squeezing out of his throat.

She tried to be a little more gentle as she pulled it out. It was paler than the rest of him but darker than she imagined Draco's was. Feeling a slight, morbid fascination—this was her best friend's _penis_ —Hermione gripped it tightly, feeling the faint pulse of it through her fingers. Slowly, she swiped her thumb over the head, smearing pre-cum across it as Harry jerked and gasped.

" _Fuck_ ," he breathed, watching her hand with the same intensity that she was.

The first movement was slow, a little hesitant. She squeezed, pulling upwards, and felt his hips leave the sofa again at the friction. Finally, Hermione raised her eyes back to his face, watching the way his lips parted with silent ecstasy as she pumped her fist over him.

Licking her lips and feeling her breath shorten a bit, she made a satisfied, throaty noise and leant forward to latch onto his neck, digging her teeth in and sucking up a mark.

"I knew it," came Draco's cultured voice, and she only jumped a _little_ when she noticed that he was seated beside them, on the sofa. She'd scarcely noticed, being so focused on Harry. " _You_ said she was all innocent. I knew it, though. I knew she'd be like this."

"Ron never—ahh—said anything!" Harry defended, barely able to string a coherent sentence together.

Hermione bit down on the soft tissue where his shoulder met his neck and felt grim satisfaction when Harry yelped. "I would have slit his throat in his _sleep_ if he'd said anything to you," she said, flatly, reminding Harry of just _what_ might happen if he started to feel a little gossipy, himself.

"Noted," Harry managed, sounding strangled.

She pumped him a few more times and then found herself frustrated with the lack of return stimulation. Releasing him, she stood, unbuttoning her own jeans. "Take your clothes off."

"Bossy," Draco murmured.

Hermione turned to snap at him, and then stopped short when she saw that his hand was on his crotch, stroking himself through the material of his own trousers. "I don't like waiting for men to figure things out," she finally huffed. "It takes forever, and I'm usually on a schedule." She shimmied out of her jeans and kicked them off, glancing at Harry as he quickly tried to divest himself of his own clothing in record time.

"And you talk too much. Do you know how long I've dreamed about _shutting you up_ , Granger?" Draco asked, his voice heavy with promise. "You need a good mouthful."

"Oh, I doubt you've a mouthful," she snorted, tearing her shirt off.

His smirk formed slowly. His hand hadn't stopped moving rhythmically over himself. "I want you to remember that you said that to me."

Then he put his hand up, twirling his finger in the universal signal of _turn around_.

Her fingers were hooked in her knickers, not quite pulling them down. "What?"

Draco stood, moving to stand in front of her—and using his foot to shove the coffee table aside. She straightened up a bit, feeling strangely vulnerable in just her knickers, but no amount of spine-stiffening would put her within spitting distance of his towering height. As he stalked around her, she turned to remain facing him, a little suspicious of his actions.

When her back was to Harry, Draco stepped forward. His fingers traced up her arms, a light, teasing touch that made her break out in goosebumps.

Gently framing her neck with his hands, he used his thumbs to urge her chin up, leaning in to kiss her—the gesture so soft that at first she just _stood_ there, trying to reconcile this with the Draco that _she_ knew. After a few tense moments, she relaxed, opening her mouth for him. She was dimly aware of his hands moving around her back and undoing her bra with a little _flick_ of his fingers. He eased the garment off of her with this strange sense of _tenderness_ , so at odds with who he was as a person that she began to suspect this was all just some insane dream.

Draco hummed in his throat as he explored her bare chest with one hand, apparently satisfied with what he found there. The other hand guided her own hand back to her knickers.

Feeling strangely drunk, she pushed them down. Harry's hands took over when she couldn't reach any further, sliding them down her legs. As she stepped out of them, he ran his calloused hands back over the smooth skin of her legs, up to her arse.

Hermione took a surprised step back when Draco moved closer, forcing her towards the couch. Then another. The backs of her legs hit Harry's knees, again, but it wasn't until Harry curled his hand around her shin that she discerned what they were trying to get her to do. She lifted her leg, letting Harry guide it back onto the sofa. Then (a bit more awkwardly), the other one, until she was straddling his lap again—but facing Draco.

The blond bore forward, pressing her down. Harry's hand anchored her hip, helping to aim himself into her.

She sank down on him with a throaty sigh, feeling her legs tremble a bit as he stretched her. The moment seemed frozen in time, striking her with a vivid clarity: This was _Harry_. Her best friend for a decade and a half. It should have been weirder than it was, but it felt oddly _right_ to be there, with him.

She should have been worried, but she trusted him. The realisation of that trust hit her like a train, and for a moment she just froze there, immobilised by it.

It didn't take long for the hand at her hip to sneak around the front, gently searching for—and finding—her clit. Jolting a bit at the contact, she moaned brokenly into Draco's mouth, her hips rolling slightly. She heard Harry swallow hard behind her, the hands at her hips trembling slightly with the sheer effort it took to remain still and let her adjust to him in her own time.

Having some trouble focusing, Hermione stared vacantly as Draco pulled back from her just enough to whisper, "So, Granger. About that mouthful?"

Swallowing hard, Hermione reached blindly for the front of Draco's trousers as he straightened up, watching her with that mercurial gaze that simultaneously scared the _shit_ out of her and made her want to shag him _beyond_ senseless. She found herself unable to look away as she got the buttons undone and slid her palm in. She cursed herself a little when she realised that he almost certainly had the mouthful he'd promised. And he'd probably have fun watching her gag on it, too, and she'd never live _that_ down.

Tired of waiting, Harry drove up into her, and she whimpered again as her eyes squeezed shut. It felt _so good_. Unreasonably good. _Probably_ illegal.

Finally able to tear her eyes away from Draco, she opened them again to focus on what was in front of her. Her mouth began watering in sympathy of what she knew was coming as she pulled him out. Behind her, Harry had settled into a sort of slow, rolling rhythm, his fingers circling her clit with the kind of know-how he must have picked up while with Ginny; the redhead was almost definitely not the kind of girl to give brownie points for _trying_.

Licking her lips, Hermione leant forward, taking the head of Draco's cock into her mouth.

It was hard not to be a little uncertain of her own abilities. She found it difficult to believe that _any_ woman would be able to give as good of a blowjob as someone in a homosexual relationship, and she didn't particularly want this to end with Draco thinking, _Merlin, she's worse than Potter_.

Given the circumstances, though, it was likely unavoidable.

Running her tongue around the head, she focused on exploring it, trying to figure out if there were any places that made him twitch or jerk or groan. But he did none of those things; no hints, no nudges in the right direction. And she was almost entirely certain he did that on purpose—because that was just the sort of shithead move Draco _would_ pull. Giving up on _that_ quest, she leant forward a bit more, grabbing at his hip and giving a slight tug.

He obliged her by stepping closer, and she felt her throat threaten to close up on her. _Do not gag_ , she told herself, harshly. Draco would probably make the day a fucking _holiday_. Gagging Granger Day. The Day A Malfoy Cock Choked Know-It-All Granger Out.

 _Do not gag_.

It had been a while since she'd had to remind herself to relax her throat for _anything_ , and she sank down against his hips slowly, not wanting to trigger anything.

His hand landed on her head, not pressing forward or holding her back, but just enough to startle her. And she gagged. Hard.

Yanking back and enduring a short coughing fit, she wheezed, "You _arse_!" Harry had fallen still behind her, a hand smoothing up her back in concern as she coughed.

Draco snickered. "Well, after all, it's _so small_ that I figured your big mouth would be able to handle it—"

"For fuck's sake, if you fucking bicker with her right now—!" Harry grit out, practically vibrating with the need to start pounding into her again.

Shooting Draco a watery glare, Hermione ground her teeth together, and yanked him forward by his hips, again. "Next time, I'll just bite you," she promised, and took him _all the way in_ with one fell swoop, sucking _so hard_ that she was a little worried she _would_ bite him—by accident anyway. She felt a flicker of satisfaction when Draco's response ended up being a strangled gurgle, his body stiffening a bit.

 _Big mouth_. Fucking _prat_.

Her new-found aggression seemed to do the trick in terms of shutting Draco up entirely. She wasn't sure if it was a good start to this, erm, _relationship_ to be giving him such a _spiteful_ blowjob. Given the noises he was making, though, she doubted he'd care, either way.

Harry's fingers picked up around her clit, again, drawing quick circles around her until she found herself moaning around Draco's cock, the combination of that and Harry rolling his hips into her at _top speed_ bringing her very close, very quickly.

Hands fisting in her hair, Draco struggled to keep from openly driving forward into her mouth as she bobbed up and down. That little thing she did where she flicked her tongue over the tip was a genius move. He found himself vaguely wondering if she'd be able to teach Harry that. Not that Harry really needed much help in the _oral sex_ category of things.

She came first.

As soon as it hit her, she stopped _everything_ , letting her mouth fall from Draco's dick as her eyes screwed shut. Harry gripped her hips and pistoned into her, half-panting and half-moaning as he sought his own release.

"Fuck," she whispered, as his movements drew her own orgasm out, everything becoming _too sensitive_. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Harry, fuck, please—"

He groaned, his hips finally stilling as he pulled her down snugly against him.

For a long moment, they just sat there, breathing.

"Well, that's nice," Draco drawled. "But." The fist in her hair tightened, pulling her back up again, the head of his erection slipping into her still-open mouth.

Still shuddering a bit, Hermione swallowed him down again. Her own orgasm made her move slower, the spite quickly draining out of her as she worked her mouth slowly up and down the length of him. Draco exhaled shakily but didn't seem to mind the change in pace, perfectly content to watch the mouth that had pissed him off so thoroughly since the _age of eleven_ stretch around the girth of his cock.

Harry was slumped back against the couch, leaning slightly to the side to watch. He groaned in his throat. "If we go again, we're switching," he decided, still sounding short of breath.

"Fine by me," Draco breathed, eyes still trained on her. She looked up at him through her eyelashes, her eyes wide and brown and her lips so pink and _engorged_ with taking him into her mouth over and over; he almost came then and there just from the sight of it.

Eyes still locked on his, she sank forward with excruciating slowness, until her nose met skin. He could feel her throat pressing down on the head of his cock.

Then, she fucking swallowed around him.

"Shit," he bit out, stiffening. It was a neat trick, although not one he'd have thought _Granger_ , of all people, would know. Besides that, it made the throat sore as all hell, and somehow he'd always imagined she was the sort of person who wouldn't consent to anything that might be vaguely uncomfortable.

Then, he wasn't really thinking anything, because she was swallowing around him as he came, and his entire being became that one, singular, _fantastic_ sensation.

When it was done, she jerked back from him and gasped for air, coughing a bit. "That took forever," she complained when she had her breath back. She leant back against Harry a bit, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Draco found his attention completely trained on her, engrossed by the subtle shift in her body language. One second, she was naked, her legs splayed and Harry still inside of her as she leant back against him. Her lips were puffy and she looked a little spent, utterly heedless of her nudity. Then, the spell seemed to lift, and he watched as her gaze came into sharper focus, her expression becoming more guarded and nervous as the moment passed. Shyly, she drew her hair over her shoulders to cover her breasts, her hands settling over her lap to hide herself from him as she slowly rose from where she was straddling Harry.

As if he hadn't _just seen_ every last inch of her in glorious detail.

She really was strange. Two rosy spots of colour formed on her cheeks as she stood and grabbed her knickers, stumbling into them and yanking them over her hips. Harry looked amused, but not particularly surprised, by her sudden modesty.

Watching her go from innocent to wanton to innocent once more was utterly captivating. Given all that, Draco realised he probably couldn't begrudge the amount of times he _knew_ Harry had thought about her while wanking in the shower. As utterly irritating as she was, there _was_ something particularly alluring about her, an odd kind of frankness couched in naiveté that was hard to ignore.

Harry found his pants, and Draco looked down to see that he was still hanging out of his trousers. He tucked himself away and handed Harry his shirt.

For the next minute, they all dressed themselves in perfect silence, not quite sure how to handle what had just happened.

Just as it began to grow awkward, Harry spoke. "Well, _I_ thought it was fun."

Hermione stared at him, her lips parted in surprise. Then she burst out laughing, collapsing against the sofa's arm, her hands covering her face. "Oh, my God," she managed to wheeze, once the worst of the mirth had passed. "Oh, I can't believe we did that. We were supposed to go _out_."

Silently, Draco thought that she couldn't have been _that_ surprised by the turn of events. She'd shaved her legs, something he'd noticed she hadn't done when she'd gotten changed for brunch. Of course, Harry hadn't seemed to notice the difference. Draco doubted Harry would have noticed if her legs had literally been a matted _carpet_ of hair.

"Well, I don't know about you two, but I am definitely not upset about the change of plans," Harry huffed, chuckling.

Even Draco was stifling a smile—not a smirk, but a _smile_ —as he listened to them, buttoning up his trousers and easing himself onto the sofa beside Harry.

Hermione's laughter finally died down. "You're an idiot," she said, fondly.

Harry reached for her, pulling her off the arm of the sofa and down beside him. "I think we should do it again," he said, slowly. " _But_ in a real bed. You know, to make sure this wasn't some sort of sofa-related fluke."

"Oh, my God," she squealed, turning red again.

"We have to test it!" he insisted. "We have to prove it _empirically_."

Hermione had raised her hands over her face again but dropped them to stare at him. "That is _not_ how you use that word, Harry Potter," she exclaimed, equal parts amused and embarrassed. "Also, we didn't use _condoms_ or—what if I wasn't on birth control, you idiot? I could have gotten pregnant!"

"Hey, if I'm an idiot for forgetting, then so are you. Besides, _we're_ clean. Who _knows_ what you have."

Gasping in outrage, she shoved him, and he toppled into Draco.

Draco watched, bemused, as she clambered over top of him, wetting her finger with her mouth and trying to shove it in Harry's ear. He was _pretty sure_ he was dating a pair of hyper puppies. "Merlin help me," he muttered, leaning away from them as they wrestled, shouting.


	11. The Subjugation of a Ghost

**The Hedgehog's Dilemma**

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**Chapter Eleven: The Subjugation of a Ghost**

She wasn't sure how she'd let herself be convinced, but Harry was towing her up to the bedroom within about ten minutes of his suggestion. Draco meandered behind them. It didn't escape Hermione's notice that he was turning off all the lights on the way to the bedroom—as though he didn't anticipate that she would need to be leaving, after this.

Of course, she'd been in their bedroom before, but never in this  _context_.

Before, she'd noticed the gleaming dark wood of all the furniture and presumed it was Draco's influence—the man probably had an uncompromisable aesthetic. It was probably easy going, too, since Harry arguably didn't have  _anything_  resembling preferences in regards to furniture or decorations; he was more than content to let someone  _else_ make all those obnoxious decisions. The bed was large, and Hermione suspected that a diagnostic with her wand would reveal an Extending Charm.

For the first time, she wondered at the bed's largeness. Had it been this large, before? Had it been charmed in anticipation of her presence?

Did they just not prefer to cuddle?

"You're thinking too hard," Draco murmured, as he passed her. She was still lingering by the bedroom doorway, staring at the bed intently. As she snapped back to herself, she realised Harry was pulling his shirt back off. Draco did the same, leaning in to give Harry a leisurely kiss as he helped him along.

Hermione stared, wide-eyed, as Draco slowly deepened the kiss, thoroughly distracting Harry from the simple task of removing clothes. Swallowing, she looked down at her own clothes and considered taking them off, too.

It felt weird.

It felt  _weird_  because this was an actual couple in front of her, undressing each other and snogging. How in God's name she was supposed to just  _insert_  herself, she didn't know.

Harry's shirt crumpled to the ground, and Draco worked on his trousers. She remained still as they peeled the clothes off each other, their moves practised and without the awkwardness that came with new couples. They could do it blind—fingers finding the appropriate buttons without even a second thought.

The realisation of what a third wheel she'd become hit her. For a second, she just held her breath, wondering if they'd notice it along with her—sense the fraudulence of her presence, somehow, and demand she leave.

"A little help, Granger?"

Snapping to, Hermione's eyes widened as she jerked guiltily, her mouth parting in silence for a moment. Then, rather eloquently, she stammered, "What?"

They were both naked and hardening fast. Draco held up a small bottle, his eyebrows raising. It took her several seconds to recognise it as lubricant, and she flushed a bit. "Oh. Um, sure," she agreed, stepping forward and taking it. Glancing at the label, she frowned, moving her head closer to peer at the ingredients. "You shouldn't use oil-based lubricant. It can weaken the condom."

Draco exhaled, long-suffering, and reached for the bottle, muttering, "I don't know how you manage to make things  _so_  tedious in as few sentences as you do."

Yanking the bottle back, Hermione glared at him. "It's just a safety thing."

Harry placed his hand on Draco's wrist, lowering his arm. "We will switch to a better lubricant," he promised, somberly. Taking in Hermione's mulish expression, he stifled a smile and reached for her, leading her towards the bed. "Come here."

She allowed herself to be pulled on the bed, hyper-aware of the fact that she was fully dressed. "Who am I, um… coating?"

"Unbelievable," Draco whispered.

Harry laughed, the sound soft, and reached up to smooth her hair behind her ears. He ducked his head to the side to catch the glare she tried to shoot Draco, his smile widening when the ferocious look dimmed a bit as her attention shifted and her eyes focused on him instead.

Pulling her close, Harry brushed his lips against hers. "You can coat Draco. He's all riled up," he said. The obvious amusement in his voice made her smile, and he kissed her, hard.

A calm swept over her, pushing the out-of-place feeling from before firmly away. Harry was here, so none of the rest of it mattered.

She was safe.

Relaxing, Hermione popped the lid. Draco hadn't moved from his spot, and she inhaled carefully. "You two don't use condoms, do you?"

Harry shrugged. "What are we going to do, get pregnant?"

"We are going to have a  _long_  discussion on sex safety," she sighed, pouring the lube into her palm. She curled her fingers around it, letting it warm up in her hand for a moment. "Later, that is."

Draco plucked the bottle out of her hand.

Once the goop in her palm had heated up a bit, she scooted towards Draco, carefully smearing it up and down the length of him. She didn't really get a chance to  _look_  very closely at it, before, and was becoming newly aware of the fact that he had no hair down there. She couldn't envision him submitting to a waxing  _or_  contorting himself in the shower to shave. Besides, she was pretty sure he still used a straight razor, and only a lunatic would put that anywhere  _near_  their family jewels. Maybe he used that hideous charm that felt like being bathed in lava.

Beside her, Harry inhaled sharply and shifted up onto his knees as Draco worked his fingers into him.

Although she couldn't be certain if it was nervous tension, or not, Hermione leant into Harry a bit, pressing a soft kiss into his shoulder. He chuckled, the sound warm in her ear, and his hand cradled the back of her head against him.

"It doesn't hurt," he whispered, and she went red as she recalled their earlier conversation. "That's what you were thinking. Wasn't it?"

"Shut up, or I'll leave him dry," she threatened, earning another throaty laugh.

"We did try that, once," he admitted, quietly, and she leant back to stare at him. He grimaced, and she wasn't sure if it was at the memory or Draco just being a little rough, back there. "And  _that_  hurt like blazes. We will  _not_  be doing that, again." He gasped, jerking forward a bit, and Draco smirked.

When Harry twisted his head around to make a face at him, Draco drawled, "You talk too much, Potter."

Hermione released Draco, judging him to be  _very_  generously coated, and then looked at her palm. She wasn't really sure what to do with it, and it was still covered in the greasy substance. What did gay men usually do, at this point?

As she looked around for a hand towel, Harry touched her arm. "Witch," he reminded her, rolling his eyes.

 _Oh_.

She cast a quick  _Tergeo_  and stowed her wand away again, turning back to the show just in time to see Draco urge Harry forward, planting his hands on the mattress. Licking his lips, he lined himself up and entered slowly, smearing his hand up Harry's back. The faint sheen of lubricant followed the movement. Hermione supposed that was a good solution, too.

She watched closely as Draco bottomed out, both of their expressions exhibiting the faint strain of ecstasy. Slowly, Draco's hands curled around Harry's shoulders, pulling him up and back.

Then, he was reclining against the headboard, Harry in his lap.

Hermione stared for a moment and then quipped, "So, reverse cowgirl. That's kind of a favourite, around here, isn't it?"

"It's slightly easier for playing," Draco agreed, reaching around to squeeze Harry's cock. Harry stiffened with a gasp, his head falling back against his boyfriend's shoulder as Draco lazily pumped him. "In any case, no, but when there's three involved, it makes sense to keep the middle one  _open_ , doesn't it?"

Harry groaned, panting as Draco rolled his hips upwards into him. "Oh, God. What are you doing?"

Draco's tone was all innocence. "Didn't you say you wanted a chance at her mouth, next?"

"Oh, you sodding—" Harry broke off with another gasp. He rolled his head back and forth but didn't actually do much to break free or otherwise stop the proceedings. "You're a bloody sadist, Draco."

Hermione's eyebrows were as high as they could possibly go. "Do you not want me to, Harry?" she asked, not really following the conversation.

Swearing, Harry squeezed his eyes shut. "You both know I do."

She blinked. Despite Harry's verbal negativity, he seemed perfectly fine with the situation. Really, she wasn't sure what objections he  _had_. From what she could see, getting fucked  _and_  blown was pretty much an ideal situation for  _any_  man. Crawling forward, Hermione once again spared a thought for the sheer  _weirdness_  that was the fact that she was still fully clothed.

Mentally shrugging, she settled between both their legs and ran her tongue up the length of him. Draco groaned as Harry stiffened around him again.

Slowly, she ran the underside of her tongue over the head, her hand replacing Draco's at the base of Harry's cock. Draco began to pick up a slow, rolling sort of rhythm, and Harry began to whisper curse words in time to it. Hermione watched Harry's abs tense and release at the onslaught of sensation, and was hit with an intense desire to make the man positively  _useless_. With Draco, her main motivator had been spite.

But with Harry, she really just wanted to please him. It was a much simpler emotion to process, and she sank down onto him, her tongue massaging the underside of his cock.

Getting him to come was easy. It wasn't until after she'd finished swallowing, and Draco's hand settled at the back of her head, that she finally understood the full breadth of their earlier conversation. Draco's hand was gentle, allowing her to refuse, but when she heard Harry's moans turn into faint sobs, the realisation hit her all at once. Once again, it was the fact that Harry didn't seem to really be  _resisting_  that informed her decision.

She worked her tongue over his softening cock, and he cried out, his hips twisting a bit to escape the sensation. Draco's hand left her head, presumably to keep him from bucking straight into her and breaking her  _nose_.

"Fuck," Harry exploded, writhing as Draco picked up the pace, pummeling into him. " _Fuck_!"

Draco wasn't too far behind, and Hermione wondered if he  _wasn't_  some sort of sadist, groaning in pure satisfaction as Harry continued to curse him to hell and back. Hermione lifted her head as Draco sagged against the headboard, shooting her a lazy smile as he murmured, "Good work."

"Oh, I hate you both," Harry huffed, pulling himself off of Draco with a grimace.

Since Hermione was the least incapacitated, she happily fetched the hand towel from the bathroom, even as Harry protested that it wasn't  _necessary_  since they had  _wands_. Still, Draco seemed to get an insane level of enjoyment out of watching Harry twitch as he cleaned him up, the rough material of the towel likely too much.

And Hermione watched them, trying to come to terms with the fact that her knickers were soaked through. Maybe sadism was catching.

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"I should probably get home," she murmured. They'd pulled her down between them, apparently not at all perturbed by the fact that she was fully dressed, and they'd all three just lied there as Draco and Harry caught their breaths.

Turning, Harry threw a hand over her middle. "What? No," he mumbled, nuzzling his face into her chest a bit. He was practically asleep, already.

Chuckling, Hermione sat up anyway. "It's getting late."

"Too late to go anywhere," Draco agreed, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her back down. "Besides… it seems unseemly that we should end this night with the two of us getting off and you being left out in the cold. Don't you think?"

"You're both half-unconscious, already," she accused, shaking her head. "I'll be  _quite_  fine. Don't worry about me."

Draco shushed her, his hand sliding down the front of her jeans. She squeaked at the intrusion, trying to roll away from him a bit. Harry was pressed so closely against her that she didn't get very far. "Draco! I said I'll be fine," she insisted as Harry edged closer. Soon, he was half on top of her, his head cushioned against her shoulder and chest and his arm wrapped securely around her middle.

She swallowed a squeal as Draco's fingers slipped into her knickers, his knuckles pressed against the moisture of them. He hummed in his throat. "Liked that, did you, Granger?"

"You are  _impossible_ ," she hissed, her hips jerking a bit as he zeroed in on her clit.

"She's soaking wet, Potter," Draco informed his boyfriend in a low drawl. Harry's arm tightened around her, and she could feel his breathing pick up. There was no doubt that he was watching Draco's hand moving around in her jeans. "Spread your legs, Granger, this is hard enough as it is."

Hermione let her head fall back. "Oh my  _God_ ," she moaned, pushing her knees up a bit and letting them fall apart, slightly.

She couldn't  _imagine_  Harry was still sleeping. His messy hair obscured her vision of anything below her chest, which was rising and falling rapidly as she choked on moan after moan. For a man who'd  _exclusively_  been shagging another man for the last two years, Draco certainly knew his way around.

"Come on, Granger." His words were a faint breath against her ear, and her eyes squeezed shut as goosebumps broke out, again. How was he always able to  _do_  that? "Come. Now."

"Don't tell me what to do," she groaned, but it was a losing battle.

She could  _feel_  his smirk as she came, his fingers slowing gradually as she trembled. "There we are," he whispered, and leant in to brush his lips over her temple. "Good. You're very good at following instructions."

Hermione swallowed, still panting a bit. "Sod off."

Her eyes were still closed, and she could feel the post-orgasmic lethargy deadening her limbs. Draco didn't remove his hand as she felt her breathing slow and even out. Her last conscious thought was:  _Is he really going to just leave his hand there?_

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The answer, of course, was 'yes.'

She found that out when she woke up. She wasn't sure how much time had passed, but it was still dark. Harry was still curled against her, dead to the world. Even Draco's breath was shallow, stirring the baby hairs at her forehead. His hand was still wedged down the front of her jeans, his fingers curled over the curls there with a nonchalant sense of possession.

For a moment, Hermione just stared at the ceiling.

She should  _not_  have fallen asleep. Sex was certainly one thing, but staying over? That was serious. That was a  _big step_. That was practically a promise of commitment. What was she going to do, wake up the next morning and eat breakfast with them?

No, no. She had to get out of this.

As gingerly as she could, she wrapped her hands around Draco's wrist, gently tugging it upwards. It was slow going; whenever she felt his breath start to quicken, she'd freeze until it evened out again. He was a tricky bastard, and she couldn't risk waking him up when he'd clearly orchestrated getting her to stay the  _first_  time. He'd do something  _Slytherin-y,_  and she'd end up just  _moving into their house_ , or something.

She nearly heaved a sigh of relief when she finally got the tips of his fingers clear of her jeans. Slowly, she slid his hand off of her.

Now Harry.

As she stared at the mess of dark hair on her chest, she inwardly sent a thousand silent curses at him. He was wrapped around her like a damn spider monkey. Still cautious of Draco, Hermione focused on getting Harry's arm off of her, first. Harry, at least, she knew slept like the  _dead_.

She had absolutely no idea how light of a sleeper Draco was.

Harry's faint snores turned into a series of snorts as she turned him onto his back. Hermione winced, waiting for Draco to come to. When he didn't, she sighed, and slowly sat up.

A hand fisted in her hair, and she swallowed a shriek as it yanked her back down. Draco rolled towards her, sounding  _perfectly_  awake. Whether or not he'd just woken up and had simply mastered the art of not sounding sleepy was up for debate. The idea that he'd just laid there and silently watched her extricate herself from all the limbs was unnerving as all hell, so she decided it was the former.

"And where do you think you're going?"

"Home," she whispered, rolling towards him to look at his face. "Let go of my hair, you utter prat."

He did, but his other hand began roaming over her hips, squeezing her arse through her jeans. "You can't possibly prefer sleeping  _alone_  to this," he said, confidently. When she just glared at him, he sighed, leaning down to brush his lips over hers in that strange, gentle way he'd done down in the living room. "Stay. It's not like you're married to us because you stayed the night  _once_."

Harry spoke, making her jump  _fantastically_  as he rolled back towards her, crowding against her back and wrapping his arm securely around her. "No," he mumbled, sounding half-asleep. "You'd need to stay over at least  _three_  times for that."

Sighing contentedly, he nuzzled against the back of her neck and seemed to fall right back asleep.

Hermione waited for a few minutes, listening to Harry's breathing to assure herself he was really unconscious, again. "Listen," she murmured. "This is just too big of a step, Draco, alright?" She fell quiet again as he leant forward to kiss her, momentarily startled. It was still soft and sweet, gently prying her lips apart. For a moment, she melted into it.

Coming to her senses abruptly, she pulled back. "Damn it, you can't just distract me from—" He was kissing her,  _again_. She made a protesting noise as he curled his arm up, cushioning her head on it.

His forearm settled against the back of her head, holding her in place as he lazily snogged her. His hand picked up a stray curl and pulled it taut, playing with it idly.

"Draco," she whispered, still trying to resist him.

It wasn't working. God  _damn_  him.

She relaxed under his soft ministrations, making a faintly frustrated noise as she began to kiss him back. She had no idea how long they snogged for; he didn't seem to grow tired of it. One moment, his mouth was angling against hers, his tongue flicking teasingly across her teeth.

The next, she was dead asleep, tangled up between the two of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my wonderful betas, ShayaLonnie, rawrbooks, and hexrmionegranger!


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